Harry Potter and the Refiner of Reality
by wlfstar
Summary: Harry Potter is set for his fourth year at Hogwarts, but before he can even do that, the Quidditch World Cup Final is cancelled due to wizarding attacks in Britain, Harry is having strange nightmares, Hogwarts is getting ready for its decadal Inspection from the Ministry, Harry is visited by creatures of the night, and he is transported into the hands of the Dark Lord himself...
1. The Problematic Prophet

Chapter One

* * *

><p>– <em>THE <em>_PROBLEMATIC PROPHET –_

* * *

><p>In a perfectly ordinary street named Privet Drive, there was a perfectly ordinary house named Number 4, and in that perfectly ordinary house was a perfectly ordinary family called the Dursleys – including a very unordinary boy indeed.<p>

Harry Potter was certainly very unordinary, and differed greatly to other boys his age. He dreaded the summer holidays, he loved school, he did his homework in secret, and he often dreamed at night about riding a flying broom. It was to be expected, seeing as though he was a wizard.

It was late afternoon, and he was in his room, rifling through today's edition of the _Daily Prophet_. It was very recently his birthday, and his birthday presents were scattered around his room; a model of a flying Ford Anglia from Ron Weasley, that made Harry grin and remember their second year and their unconventional ride to Hogwarts; a mirror from Mrs Weasley that shouted at Harry if he didn't brush his teeth more than two minutes, though he made sure he didn't install it in the Dursley's bathroom; a rubber duck from Mr Weasley; a box of heart-shaped chocolates from Ginny Weasley, who had been very taken with Harry since his first year; a thick book about the United Kingdom's Quidditch teams throughout history, from Hermione; a large rock cake from Hagrid which Harry hadn't touched; a collection of volumes about Dark creatures from Lupin; and from Sirius was a set of mischief-making drinks, including an Temporary Ageing Potion, a Teeth-Blackening Brew and a Pimple-Producing tonic.

He was reading the _Daily Prophet _in his bedroom. There was one story about a newfound spell that duplicated oneself and lasted for a very long time, but Harry looked away from that. Another article with a moving picture of Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, dropping his hat clumsily and putting it back on hastily caught his eye.

_SIRIUS BLACK: "Threat diminished," Fudge says._

_Notorious criminal Sirius Black escaped from high-security prison Azkaban last year and no Aurors have been able to track down this incognito murderer – but Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic says the threat of Sirius Black is reduced largely._

"_Last year," Fudge said to the _Daily Prophet_ interview team, a little flustered, "We were … mostly convinced that Sirius Black was after Harr– uh, a Hogwarts student, or something at the school. That's why we installed the Dementors at Hogwarts … hoping that they would be able to catch him. However, they didn't, uh, succeed, in the task. A professor from Hogwarts managed to capture him, and we withheld him in a highly-guarded office while we rounded up the Dementors for the kiss, but … he managed to escape … from us … again."_

"_Despite that," Fudge continued, laughing nervously and fiddling with his bowler hat, "Sirius Black has not been seen since that incident … has not killed anyone recently … no deaths … that's all jolly good. We at the Ministry believe that this is a good sign. Sirius Black may have no doubt fallen into the jaws of a Gringotts dragon, or eaten by a Chimaera. All level ten security procedures may lower into a level five."_

_ The interview with the Minister, republished in today's _Prophet _from yesterday, was met with outrage and shock._

"_How dare the Minister say that?" a Ministry worker who did not wish to be named says. "He cannot just _assume _that Sirius Black is _gone_! For all we know, he could be biding his time, waiting to massacre all of us when we let our guard down!"_

"_The Minister's words are a little desperate," giggled Griselda Grey, Vice-Chief of the Wizengamot and Head of the Magical Education Facilities in Europe. "I mean, we all want Sirius Black done and dead, but we can't just let our hopes get up, right? We ought to maintain the level ten security measures, instead of drastically reducing it to an ordinary five. Plus, as you know, the terror attacks – probably just the work of half-breed activists, but still, precaution is precaution! – happening should be evidence enough to Cornelius that we should stay as level ten security measures."_

_ For readers who do not know, the Reasonable Security Levels recently created by the Department of Magic Law Enforcement are as follows: _

_ Level 1 – Complete and Utter Safety and No Need for Security Measures At All_

_ Level 2 – Minor Issues, Unrelated to Current Activities _

_ Level 3 – Slight Problems, Nothing Unsolvable_

_ Level 4 – Daily Life Matters_

_Level 5 – An Average Day, Entailing Several Personal Matters plus World Issues_

_Level 10 – Serious Difficulties, Don't Go Out at Night_

_Level 15 – Severe Difficulties, Don't Go Out, Ever_

_Level 20 – Dead by Tomorrow Morning_

_ Griselda goes on to say, "I do hope, sooner rather than later, that Cornelius Fudge realises what a difficult situation magical Britain is facing at the moment. Otherwise, we may have to … elect a new Minister."_

_ Severus Snape, Potions professor at Hogwarts School and the one who apprehended Sirius Black last year had this to say: "I, for one, personally knew Black at my time as a student at Hogwarts. He was a vindictive, deceitful _hellion_ and thought school rules much below him. I see no evidence to support otherwise that Black is not lying in wait, ready to murder a few … particular people, and perhaps to return to the Dark Lord and continue his dark work."_

_ Fudge has not replied to the outcry responding to the questionable interview published yesterday._

_ Perhaps the one good thing from Fudge's laxness is that the horrendous Dementors, Azkaban's guards, no longer occupy Hogwarts. The Hogwarts Express sets off on the 1__st__ of September, and many are glad that they won't be greeting any more Dementors when they arrive._

Harry read the article, frowning more and more as he scanned down. The mention of his least favourite professor, potions master Severus Snape, who hated Harry because he was jealous of Harry's father, was disconcerting, but there were other issues that troubled Harry. The 'notorious criminal' Sirius Black mentioned was Harry's godfather. Like everybody else, he had, until a year ago, thought Sirius Black was the sinister murderer that had killed a dozen Muggles and one wizard thirteen years ago. Some other people who knew more about Sirius and the Potters, Harry's parents, believed that Sirius had betrayed Lily and James Potter to Lord Voldemort. One day, Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban, a feat nobody had achieved before. Everyone became paranoid and kept Harry under close watch, because they believed Sirius was after Harry, to kill him.

At the end of the year, Harry found out that Sirius Black was not a traitor after all, and Sirius had been searching for Peter Pettigrew, his former best friend who was the one who actually betrayed Lily and James. Pettigrew, nicknamed Wormtail, was an Animagus – a person who could turn into an animal – and had been disguising himself as Harry's best friend's rat for fourteen years, with the whole wizarding world under the illusion that Pettigrew was dead. Though Harry and his best friends Ron and Hermione had found out Sirius was innocent, Wormtail escaped before they could clear Sirius's name.

Though Harry knew the true story of what happened and knew that nobody would believe him, he was kind of shell-shocked at Fudge's decision to lower security. What was he playing at? Maybe Fudge was a little ignorant sometimes, a little pompous, but he definitely wasn't stupid.

Harry, flicking his eyes from a story about a graveyard in Little Hangleton being completely cleared of all the bodies and graves, spotted a smallish article, stuffed into the back of the newspaper as if it wasn't important.

_INCOGNITO ATTACKS FREQUENT IN LONDON_

_Since the first one in June, there have been countless, sometimes major, mostly minor attacks in magical places such as wizarding homes, monuments, the Magizoologist Museum and even an attempt on the Ministry itself. At first, many speculated the earliest offence – the beheading of the statue of Glynde Gooch, a famous Muggleborn Healer – was a freak weather accident, or a childish prank, but the attacks have escalated._

_Since then, we've experienced burnings of Muggleborn wizard's and witch's homes, the abduction of their pets and possessions and even everlasting rainclouds with no counter-jinx that follow them wherever they go. Well-known Muggle sympathisers like the Weasley family have had their home – affectionately called the Burrow – set ablaze –_

Harry widened his eyes – the Weasleys were a kind, generous family, they treated him like their own–

_Thankfully, nobody has died or been critically injured as of yet. While some serious injuries, like broken bones and concussions, have occurred, it's nothing experienced Healers can't fix with Skelegro or healing spells. Heddwyn Montgomery, worker in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement said, "This is not the work of childish pranksters. This is the experienced, seasoned hexes and curses of adults. These are horrible, terrible antics against Muggleborns, and if you are one of these brutes performing these cruel practical jokes, be ashamed of yourself and STOP. Everyone, be on alert. Anyone with information, we plead you to come forward. Aurors are searching currently for any guiding light in this darkness."_

Harry thought he might have an idea who the attacker was – Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizarding ever this century. Wormtail, once Harry's father's best friend, had betrayed Harry's mother and father to Voldemort. Lord Voldemort had crept into Harry's house on that fateful night, and murdered Lily and James Potter. Voldemort had then turned his wand onto Harry and performed a curse that had killed countless others. For reasons unclear to Harry and most of the wizarding world, that night, the curse had rebounded from Harry and hit Voldemort, leaving Harry with nothing but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Voldemort, his life force rapidly running out and reduced to almost nothing, had fled and hidden for the last thirteen years, slowly regrowing. That night, Voldemort's supporters and followers had disbanded, and the terror on the wizarding community had been lifted, leaving Harry an orphan, but a celebrity. This was the reason Harry had been left with his dreadful aunt and uncle, his only living relatives.

Feeling perturbed, Harry rummaged through the paper again and found a very small article crammed into the corner of other, huger stories.

_Unfortunate Death Happens at Ministry_

Alarmed, Harry read on.

"_Unspeakable" Jerome Jonatus has deceased in an accident in the Ministry of Magic. An Unspeakable is a person who works in the Department of Mysteries, a shrouded and secret department in the Ministry. This accident was not anybody's fault. Condolences go to his family. _

Harry reread the article many times. _What_? There were no details! There were no specifications! The article, which would've taken less than two lines in the normal script of the _Prophet_, was wedged into a tiny text box in the corner of the page, so Harry had to squint to read it. An equally tiny picture of a smiling man supposably Jerome Jonatus was squashed underneath the text.

This story, this death, was important! More important than talking animals, which took up the entirety of two pages, plus a moving picture of a dog speaking fluent English. Utterly confused and frowning, Harry used some scissors to cut out the incredibly miniature piece and placed it in _Wizarding Diseases and Their Cures_, a tiny volume with tiny text, so at least he wouldn't lose it.

Harry foraged through the _Prophet _for any more stories, while drinking some tea he sneaked up from the kitchen (his uncle, aunt and cousin did not believe he had the right to drink their tea). He found another one that made him drop his jaw and spill his tea onto the carpet.

_HOGWARTS TO BE INSPECTED NEXT YEAR_

_The Inspection and Investigation of Magical Education Institutions in Europe is a decadal examination and scrutiny of all evaluation and examination of schools in Europe, namely Hogwarts. No school has ever failed the assessment (with the exception of Frogwarts School, which we do not speak of), but this year the standards have been set even higher, with the Wizengamot's very own Vice-Chief and Ministry's Head of Magical Education, Griselda Grey, running the show this year._

_When interviewed by the Daily Prophet, she had this to say: _

"_I mean, I'm not going to _brag _or anything, but I believe I can further extend the qualities and standards of education this decade. I'll be examining schools on not only educative and academic aspects like class work, student participation, teacher work standards, but also social relations, such as teacher-student friendships, houses, rewards and how their given, friendship, study and play groups. I'll scrutinise the school's workings, find out the teachers' backgrounds and how they were hired, and I'll exemplify how a good, working citizen should act."_

_When asked which schools she would be testing, Griselda laughed. _

"_Oh, all of them, of course! I'll go to the usual; Hogwarts, Salemsong, Beauxbatons, Aquafors, and many more. I intend to stay at the schools for maybe a month or so to inspect and grade them as best as I can and make Europe even more advanced in magical education."_

"_We – the Magical Education Office, that is – are excited to know that Hogwarts has managed to find another Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the famous ex-Auror, renowned for his jinx-happy attitude," Griselda said, smiling, "who I hope will stay at the job long enough for me to grade him. There are some doubts on whether Mad-Eye Moody will be able to teach, always known for his paranoia and little doubt of murderers and assassins almost everywhere, but I'm sure we can bring him up to a proper standard. If not, Hogwarts maybe have to hire a new professor."_

_Rumours are, the job's jinxed._

Harry, despite himself, couldn't fight a grin. He was going to his fourth year at Hogwarts in September, and his previous three years had been chaotic and catastrophic. In those three years, he had had three Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers; one of them dead, one of them with his memory removed, one of them resigned. Each had left at the end of the year.

Then, he frowned. Hogwarts was having an inspection? He'd never heard of anyone saying something like this was going to happen. Hogwarts, the most prestigious school in the world, was probably going to pass. Harry certainly hoped it did.

The next article made him a little disappointed.

_QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP FINAL CANCELLED_

"_The Quidditch World Cup Final between the Irish Team and the Bulgaria team has been indefinitely called off, ever since the mysterious, unknown terror attacks happening in London," says Ludo Bagman, Head of Sports Department and former Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps. Worries are that the Quidditch World Cup, a huge, international event will be the catalyst for attacks and riots from what some speculate to be the House-Elf Liberation Promoters (commonly, HELP), the Half-Breed Rights Campaign and Merpeople Justice Activists, all half-breed committees set on giving half-breeds rights and infamous for their riots – though an anonymous person suspects that the riots might be from somebody else… _

Uninterested, Harry skipped the article and read more.

Suddenly, he heard heavy, hefty footsteps pounding up the stairs. The only person in the world – maybe except for Hagrid, the kind, gigantic game keeper and Care for Magical Creatures professor – who could make such a ruckus was Vernon Dursley, who had the bulk of a whale.

"Oi – boy – it's dinner – yeh better get down here –" Uncle Vernon said jerkily, and Harry knew this was because they had learned Sirius Black, who was also on the Muggle news, was Harry's godfather and could come to Privet Drive anytime and turn everybody to frogs or something. Vernon came into the room, stared at the floor and turned beet red. "_Look at the floor_!"

Harry looked at the floor. "I'm looking at the floor."

"_What – what – the tea stain –_" Uncle Vernon said, pointing at the spilt tea like it was a disease or something.

"What? Oh, the tea. Don't worry, I'll clean that up," Harry said, still looking through the _Daily Prophet_.

"_N-NO_!" Uncle Vernon yelled suddenly, and Harry jumped. "You can't just _take tea _from the kitchen and make a mess and expect it to clean itself!"

Harry's temper was rising, but he refused to look away from the newspaper. "I just said that I would clean it up when I'm finished reading the paper–"

Vernon violently snatched the _Daily Prophet_ from Harry's hands and scowled as he scanned the news. "Rubbish … codswallop … nonsense … Quidditch? … bloody hell …"

"_Give it back_." Harry felt his blood turn hot.

"_You shall not read this – this – this balderdash, this gibberish in my home_!" Vernon said, wildly waving the roll of newspaper in the air.

Harry, involuntarily, felt a snakelike urge. He felt terror and rage tremble through him, fury at the man who had allowed him to be bullied, and then bullied him himself. He wanted to reach for his wand, whip it out, and curse Uncle Vernon into oblivion. He wanted to leave this household, to never step foot in it again and to live a Dursley-free life, maybe with Sirius. But then, he remembered Dumbledore, the man who had always been right and clever and truthful and who had told him that staying with the Dursleys was Harry's best options.

Reluctantly, Harry calmed down and looked away from Uncle Vernon. "Right. Sorry, Uncle Vernon. I won't read anymore. I'll clean the mess and go down for dinner."

"Right," Uncle Vernon said, twisting his face in triumph. "You do that – and be quick."

Secretly, Harry wanted to cast _Tergeo_, the incantation of a spell that siphoned off any liquid, but he had some mixed feelings about the Ministry and their Reasonable Restriction for Underage Magic. Once, a house-elf had used a Hovering Charm on a cake in 4 Privet Drive, and Harry had received a warning from the Ministry not to use magic at home. The next time, Harry had this time actually _used _magic on somebody else and had not been warned or charged at all. He wasn't going to take any chances.

After cleaning the carpet, he went downstairs for dinner, where the Dursleys mainly ignored him, which Harry didn't mind at all. Harry looked across the table and saw a terribly distraught Aunt Petunia comforting a stubbornly angry Dudley. Harry hid a grin. Dudley was – and this wasn't to be _rude _or anything, but _factual _– incredibly, enormously, immensely _fat_. He was the size of an average baby whale, and this matter was raised in his yearly report, along with the fact Dudley was a bully and cheated in tests. The school was concerned about Dudley's weight and size, and especially because the school didn't sell any uniforms the size and weight of a young killer while. Finally, after tantrums and arguments, screams and sobs, the regime began, a diet which involved throwing away sodas, lollies, crisps, chocolate and burgers, and replacing that with apples and bran biscuits and wholegrain bread and celery sticks. To make Dudley feel better, Aunt Petunia made the rest of the family join in on the diet, which made Harry, already skinny and stick-like from years of malnourishment, even more skeletal. Today's special was lettuce, which Uncle Vernon prodded with his fork.

"Petunia, dear, can't we–?" Uncle Vernon began pleadingly.

"_No_. And that is final." Petunia sent a warning glare at her husband and he sighed loudly.

"I'm not eating this – this _rabbit food_!" Uncle Vernon muttered.

"You _will_."

Uncle Vernon grumbled under his breath and finished his lettuce leaves and left back to his study. After Petunia's constant begging, Dudley finally finished his lettuce and then left to play video games. Aunt Petunia shooed Harry away and told him she was going to clean the dishes. (Though Harry tried to point there wasn't any point, really, in washing them, she sent him a terrible glower that reminded him on Professor McGonagall, his Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts.)

Harry went back to his bedroom and fell asleep, and had his worst nightmare yet.

* * *

><p>In the dream, Harry felt himself crane his neck … he was weak … frail … he needed rejuvenation …<p>

His servant, Wormtail approached him … oh, how feeble and fragile Wormtail was … spurred by the thought of self-preservation … was only helping him because he valued his own safety … how sick Wormtail made him …

Harry asked, "Have you sent the Night-Knocker to bother our nemesis? ... It should keep him awake for a few years," ... and then he laughed in joy at the pain he would cause to that Potter boy ... the horrible, furious rage that appeared every time he thought of him ... his nemesis ... the one with power to vanquish him ...

Wormtail's voice was wavering, worried … he was terribly anxious about something … "My Lord," Wormtail said … "The graveyard in Little Hangleton, all the graves, the bodies and the bones have mysteriously disappeared" …

Harry suddenly felt rage flare inside of him … "_Dumbledore_," he hissed … "The meddling old fool … he has always been a step ahead of us … we cannot use the potion you suggested anymore then …"

Bothered and troubled, Wormtail said, "_Please_ my lord – we cannot use the last resort –"

"_That is all we have_!" Harry yelled … the only other option was to bring the Horcruxes together and try for _remorse_ … never … there was only one alternative …

Wormtail shuddered and bowed down … "I'm sorry, my Lord … I just believed that … it would be better … less painful … if we did not go down that route …"

"Alas, my little scoundrel friend … that is the only route we can go down … round up the old _gang _… see who remains faithful … punish those who do not … let us begin the plans to steal from the Department of Mysteries …"

Harry woke up, cold and clammy, sweaty and highly disconcerted, his scar burning like his forehead was on fire. Then, horrifyingly, there was a loud, sinister knock on window.

* * *

><p>AN: Hi! This fic is based of the GoF year, but there isn't the Triwizard Tournament. Basically, it's an AU where everything is the same except Harry does not have the same experiences in his fourth year (don't worry, by the end, it'll tie up loose ends and fit together with the real Harry Potter series and it'll seem like it was canon all along).

Disclaimer: Obviously, I'm not JK Rowling, and all characters, settings and objects belong to her, except for a few minor ones I made up.


	2. Night Knocker

Chapter Two

* * *

><p>– <em>NIGHT KNOCKER –<em>

* * *

><p>Quickly, Harry whipped his glasses on, and tugged out a Lux Lamp from under his bed (he was too agitated and frightened to get out of bed and turn on the lights). Unlike normal lamps, this magical one bought from Dervish &amp; Banges shone brighter than the sun and only went out after a year of use, so it was generally a pain to look at. He usually kept it stuffed under the bed, tight and surrounded by many layers of clothing, so he wouldn't have trouble sleeping at night. It was a burden, however, to yank the lamp out from under the bed and by the time he finally got it out, the knocking had stopped.<p>

Breathless as if he had just been in a running race, he held one hand to his burning, agonised scar and the other held the Lux Lamp an arm's length away. Squinting, Harry raised the lamp to the window, but Harry could see nothing there. Slowly, he circled the room with the lamp in his hands but he found nothing. _It could've been a bird_, Harry reasoned, and decided that it was, in fact, a bird.

Relieved, Harry went back to bed, stuffing the Lux Lamp unceremoniously under the bed, loosely this time. No sooner had Harry just started getting comfortable did the knocking begin again, this time on the exterior wall.

Harry whipped his sheets off and hastily put on his glasses and took out the lamp again. Scrutinising the room, he hoisted the lamp up and walked around the small bedroom. Again, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

Apprehensive now, he went back to bed face up, his glasses still on his face and the Lux Lamp in his hand. He waited minutes, but the sinister knocking did not return. Grateful, Harry set his glasses on the table and began to doze off, the Lux Lamp slipping from his fingers –

_The damn knocking again_.

Harry knew that if he got up it would disappear, and when he went back to bed it would return, so he stayed, listening to the eerie tapping noise, more like a sharp, incredibly pointy fingernail tapping against glass, rather than knocking. It chilled Harry's blood to his bones, turning his insides to slush. It was horrible, and it was certain this was no bird. It wasn't like a movie, where birds knocked on glass with their beak to annoy somebody and keep them awake. This sound resonated throughout Harry's whole body, and didn't annoy him so much as petrified him to the very core.

Could it be a magical creature? It probably was, now that Harry thought about it. Was it Voldemort? No, Voldemort was feeble, weak and without a proper body; Harry had learned that from his chilling dream. Was it somebody playing a prank on him, like Fred and George Weasley? If it was, it was a sick and a weak joke. 4 Privet Drive was supposed to be secured by Dumbledore, but could a dark magical creature working for Voldemort penetrate the protective enchantments? Could something get through the defences?

The knocking was still continuing and as soon as Harry got up, it ceased.

And as soon as Harry went down, it began again. "_Shut up_," Harry hissed, trying to make sure his voice didn't tremble.

And the knocking did stop, for a few seconds, and it began again. But this time, terrifyingly, the knocking came, not from the outside of the house or the window, but outside his bedroom door. From the light expelling from the Lux Lamp, Harry saw goose pimples on his arm and he felt cold wash over him.

He stayed up all night because of this, and the tapping continued ceaselessly. Finally, it seemed like Harry managed to fall asleep because of utter exhaustion and when he woke up, there was still that endless, terrifying knock, rhythmically sounding like a beat to a song.

And Harry was paralysed in fear, his eyes shut tight as the knocking from the door stopped and started – but now it was _inside_ the room, _everywhere_. Pattering on his trunks, his books, the hollow sound of his broom, rapping on his ceiling, his floorboards, and, eventually, his bed.

Harry didn't dare open his eyes as the tapping increased, louder and louder, quicker and quicker, resounding against the wood of Harry's bedframe.

The _thing _crept underneath Harry's bed, sound and feeling rumbling beneath him, and then it swiftly changed to above the bed. Harry felt something that felt like a spider with spikes for legs brush past his torso and he gasped. The thing crept past Harry's body and – now Harry shuddered and shivered – reached Harry's head. Now Harry realised the tapping was probably it _walking_, the same horrible noise resonant every time. The thing's legs – _fingers_? – grazed Harry's neck and reached his face, running a claw down his cheek and drawing blood. It scuttled over his face, and Harry discovered newfound understanding for Ron's fear of spiders. The thing – probably not a spider, but _still_ – was a creature, a critter, with several limbs, and even without looking at it, it was horrifying. It made a threatening, menacing noise every time it walked and Harry felt like a coward, moaning as the thing brushed over his face and walked away. There was a louder sound, like somebody heavy walking – was the thing bringing more of its friends? As the sound of the thing receded, Harry felt a burning curiosity inside him and opened his eyes, whipping out the lamp in front of him.

Instead of a monstrous spider or a ghostly beast like he'd imagined, there was Uncle Vernon at the doorway, having swung the door open the same time Harry swung the lamp up. Uncle Vernon was swearing and shielding his eyes from the light, and Harry, disappointed, deduced that he had been too late to open his eyes and the creature had escaped. Additionally, the sound of someone heavy walking actually was somebody heavy – Uncle Vernon – walked up the stairs.

"TURN THE BLOODY LIGHT OFF!" Uncle Vernon roared and Harry swore the room shook.

Harry, who did not want to tell Uncle Vernon that he was using a magical lamp – that could not be turned off – in his home, said, "Um", and then stuffed the lamp as deeply as he could in his bed sheets, blocking out the light.

"Finally!" Uncle Vernon barked, and Harry now felt uncomfortable. His uncle was coming to his room an awful lot lately, and Harry didn't like what that meant. Blinking, his uncle stared at Harry. "Now, what was that _damn awful_ tapping noise going on through the bloody night? _Some people are trying to sleep_."

"Er – I have a tapping habit," said Harry lamely.

However, Uncle Vernon found this explanation suitable enough. "Fine. FIX IT!"

Harry refrained from pointing out that Uncle Vernon had a habit of sneaking tub loads of ice cream into the house when Aunt Petunia was out with her friends, and eating the whole lot before Petunia came home, and _he _never made an attempt to fix it.

Then Uncle Vernon switched on the light and frowned at Harry. "Why've you got a gash on your cheek?"

Harry realised he was talking about the cut the _thing _had given him. "Oh – that? Um, that's nothing."

"Right then," Uncle Vernon said, sounding suspicious. "Well, Petunia and I are gong out buying more – _vegetables _so, we won't be having breakfast til later."

"Right," Harry said.

Uncle Vernon peered warily but moved away anyway, and Harry felt himself relax as Uncle Vernon left, calling back and saying, "_Don't touch anything, don't eat anything, don't do anything remotely strange_! Stay inside your room until we come back."

He slumped into bed, and thought about what to do next. He had spent most of last night awake, petrified of the monster tapping and knocking at his bedroom door the whole time. Even if this wouldn't continue tonight, Harry felt like _telling _someone. His first thought went to Hermione, his extremely clever best friend going into fourth year like him. If she didn't know, then nobody would, maybe with the exception of Dumbledore or Lupin, neither of whom Harry felt like contacting as of yet.

Ron, Harry's other best friend, wouldn't know, and he would most likely worry or tell his dad. Harry didn't need that, so he began writing a letter to Hermione.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Thanks so much again for that brilliant birthday present you gave me. That book – Quidditch Teams in the United Kingdom? – really great. I'm OK right now – well, as OK as you can be living with the Dursleys. What about you? _

_I was just writing to you about something that happened to me yesterday. While I was in bed, there was this continuous tapping noise and it went on for the entire night, and it was really chilling. I think it might be a magical creature, because it came inside my room and I felt it crawl all over me. It was scary, but it wasn't like a Dementor or a Boggart. It felt more … panicky, than dreadful or fearful. Tell me what you can – and there's no need to contact Dumbledore, Lupin, Sirius or Ron's dad. _

_Do you know anything like it? Thanks, Hermione, I really miss you and Ron._

_Also, I've been having strange dreams about Wormtail and possibly Voldemort and my scar's hurt. Don't worry too much – I'm probably over-exaggeration. I just wanted you to know._

_Thanks again, Harry._

He gave it to Hedwig, and watched his snowy owl fly off into the horizon, where the sun rose, and Harry supposed he'd better do his homework, when his uncle and aunt weren't in the house. Dudley _might _rat Harry out, but Dudley was probably playing video games or whatever.

It was early August, and Harry didn't have much time to finish all his assignments, having left them until later. He needed to finish an essay about Protective and Defensive Charms and their uses for Professor Flitwick, another one for Snape – Harry's least favourite professor – about Polyjuice Potion (luckily, he and his friends had used the particular potion in their second year and Harry had learned quite a lot about it because of this), a History of Magic composition about the fifteen goblin rebellions in history, and a piece of writing for Astronomy about each planet of the solar system and their moons. He also needed to rewrite and edit his poorly written papers for Defence, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures and Divination.

He got out his quill, bottle of ink and a piece of parchment, and spoke aloud as he wrote. "Polyjuice … potion … is … a … brew … which … changes … the … physical … appearance … of … the … drinker … and … allows … the … drinker … to … assume … somebody … else's … form."

And he wrote and wrote and wrote, including adding the ingredients to the potion and the time it takes to brew it. It was ten o'clock when he finished the five feet of parchment he was meant to write and was incredibly bored. He couldn't possibly write another good quality essay like this. Yawning, he made his way out of his room to maybe sneak up another cup of tea.

Surprisingly, Dudley was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting and looking like he was trying to be defiant and brave, but rather ended up appearing as if a pig was going to start crying.

"I know you were doing homework," Dudley said, trembling.

"That's what normal kids who go to school do, Dudley," said Harry, but now he was worried. What if Dudley told his father? Harry was sure in for a thrashing.

"You're not normal," Dudley said, and suddenly he sounded more confident. "You are not normal."

"OK, I'm not normal," Harry said, shrugging, nonchalant on the outside but anxious on the inside. Would Uncle Vernon take away his homework, his wand, his broom, his _owl_? "If being normal is being like you, then _I_ certainly don't want to be."

"Dad'll go ballistic if he finds out you've been doing your m-magic in here," Dudley said, smirking. "He'll kick you out."

"_I haven't been doing magic_," Harry said slowly. "I have been doing homework."

"Whatever! Dad doesn't like you doing anything related to that _school _of yours," Dudley said nastily.

"OK, whatever, I don't really care if you tell him," Harry lied, beginning to go back upstairs. Using reverse psychology often worked with Dudley, as he was nothing short obtuse and doltish and spent most of his time at school beating up ten year olds, eating food, playing games and eating food.

However, this time, it didn't work. "I know you're trying to trick me."

"Damn it, Dudley, you've surpassed me incredibly with your wit," Harry muttered.

Dudley narrowed his piggy eyes. "Watch your mouth."

"I should say the same thing every time you look at the candy shop walking home from school. But you can't resist stealing some, right?"

Dudley's face resembled a murderous tomato. "I'm not the only one sneaking food–"

"It's _tea_, plus I _live _here!"

"I wish you didn't."

"Oh, yeah? I wish I didn't either," Harry said hotly.

Dudley frowned. "Then _leave_."

Harry paused. He really wanted to, but then there was Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who had told Harry _specifically _that the Dursley household was the safest place Harry could stay, for the time being. Disgusted, Harry turned away. "I can't. Dudley, you wouldn't understand. It's about _magic_."

As Harry walked away, Dudley said, "I _will _tell Dad. Unless you do something for me. _Please_. _You _can only do it."

"I'm not interested, Dudley," Harry said, but, in in all trueness, Harry was very interested to know what Dudley thought Harry could give him that Dudley's overindulging parents could not.

* * *

><p>That night, the knocking came back, still as chilling as ever. Desperate to get away from the noise, Harry hid in the bathroom, but the tapping continued there, and it was all the more haunting, the sleek raps against the window, the breathing at the back of his neck, the shampoos and soaps knocking down when Harry was startled.<p>

Thankfully, when Harry got into bed, he quickly went to sleep, not having any nightmares that night. In the morning, there was no tapping, for which he was incredibly grateful.

He drowsily finished the History of Magic essay, careful to do it quietly and discreetly. However, he was very sleepy and clumsy that morning, so later, when Uncle Vernon was putting in the washing – along with Harry's bed sheets – he bellowed astonishingly loudly.

Alarmed, Harry, Aunt Petunia and Dudley rushed out to see what the commotion was.

Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the shirt and pulled him closer. "WHAT IS THIS?" Uncle Vernon yelled, holding up a sheet with an ink stain on it.

Harry struggled for a response, so all he could think of was, "It's a sheet. With a stain on it. I'm sure even you can see that."

"I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!" he roared.

"Then do you want me to whisper? Or shout?" Harry asked, feeling his temper rising as well. His uncle wasn't even angry about the fact that there was a stain on it and it would be hard to wash – he was angry that about the fact that there _was _an ink stain which insinuated Harry did something other than sleep all day.

Uncle Vernon ignored his acid words. "_If I found out that you've been contacting your queer little friends, or you've been writing things for your freakish school_–"

"Then you'll know that I do more than sleep and eat," Harry finished and walked away from a fuming uncle, a shell-shocked aunt and, on the way, a smug Dudley down the hallway who whispered, "Mum and Dad are out tomorrow. You know what you need to do."

Then louder, speaking to his parents, Dudley said, "Mum, Dad, while you're out tomorrow, I'll keep an eye on him. If he does anything weird, I'll tell you."

As the two boys walked away, Dudley gave Harry a wink, something that he'd never done Harry in about fourteen years of living together. Harry was very suspicious. Was this another one of Dudley's foolish pranks that had never worked ever since Harry became eleven? What did Dudley want from Harry?

That night, the knocking was back, more haunting than ever, and this time, Harry tried to keep his eyes wide open to get a _glance _at this forsaken _thing_. But every time Harry blinked, the sound got closer and Harry eventually gave up, lying, eyes open in bed, waiting for the sun to come up. He got no sleep, and when the tapping finally stopped, he was irate and wondered indignantly why Hermione was taking so long with her reply.

He got up and went down to eat breakfast. The Dursleys had, of course, left a notice on the fridge saying they would be back very soon and that Harry was not allowed to do eat anything, touch anything, watch anything or basically do anything entertaining. Ignoring what Harry supposed Uncle Vernon had intended to be a menacing note, Harry took out an apple and munched on it as he made his way to the dining room. Dudley was waiting for Harry there.

"Hi," Dudley said.

"OK," said Harry.

"Well..." said Dudley.

And then Harry said, "What do you even want from me?" at the same time Dudley said, "I want you to make me thin."

"_What_?" Harry said, and then snorted loudly. "You – what–?"

"I – I just said–"

"It's totally weird – I can't –"

"You _will_ or I'll tell Dad you've been meddling with magic, you have–"

"You – you are blackmailing me _right now_ – why should I help you?"

"I'll tell Dad – he'll throw you out–"

"Then you'll still be fat–"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT–"

"Why not? You _are_ fat–"

Dudley looked murderous. "Oh yeah? I'm not as fat as that giant friend of yours that came storming through the door on that island house three years ago. The one that gave you that letter all those bloody birds wanted to give to you? Your giant friend – _disgusting_, he is, all pot-bellied and pudgy."

Harry suddenly felt defensive. Dudley was speaking about Rubeus Hagrid, the game keeper and Care for Magical Creatures at Hogwarts. He was the gentlest, kindest, funniest teacher Harry had and he felt his blood boil at the thought of Dudley insulting him. Hagrid had been his first real friend and the one who had introduced Harry to the magical, wondrous world of Hogwarts, and Harry did not take Dudley's snide remarks lightly. "_Hagrid _is not fat. He's – it was probably an Engorgement Charm or a Swell Spell – you wouldn't understand – _whatever_. He's not a giant, he's _human_. He's hundred times the person you are."

Dudley smirked. "If that _bloated_, enormous bloke is a _person_, I'm a pig."

"You certainly look like one – a pig that learned to walk on two legs–" Harry said, his temper rising.

"_Hagger-rid _looks like an _elephant _that learned to walk on two legs, he's just a _freak _like you, though maybe a little more freaky – God, he's awful, lumbering around and grunting like the oaf he is, he's –"

But at this point, Dudley screeched as Harry, instinctively, whipped out the wand from his pocket and prodded it threateningly at Dudley's throat. Dudley began whimpering, and then crying, and by the time Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia came home, Dudley had told his parents all about what Harry had done, conveniently leaving out the fact Dudley had provoked relentlessly and adding that Harry had tried to murder him.

"_HOW DARE YOU RAISE YOUR FILTHY STICK AT MY SON?_" Uncle Vernon bellowed at Harry, who had been forcibly seated down by a prim-face Aunt Petunia and a whimpering Dudley crying crocodile tears.

"I didn't even do anything to him–"

"_YOU DARED THREATEN MY SON WITH YOUR DISGUSTING, UNUSUAL – THING__!_"

Harry was furious. "He _goaded_ me–"

"Did you, Didders?" Aunt Petunia asked soothingly to her son. He shook his head, with a very convincing grimace on his face. She turned to Harry with an accusatory expression. "_See! How dare you hold Dudley accountable for your disgusting actions? _What were you even _doing _with your – _twig _– out and about, brandished and in the view of _neighbours_? Did you even c_are _to think about _our _reputation?"

"I only had my wand out because Dudley wanted me to make him thin!" Harry said loudly and Uncle Vernon stopped growling and seething and Aunt Petunia's flushed face lost all colour.

"D–Dudley?" Aunt Petunia asked, horrified. "Is this true?"

Dudley remained expressionless.

"_Oh, _DUDLEY!" Aunt Petunia sobbed and began hugging Dudley tightly, muttering to him that the diet _was _working, and Dudley could take up a sport – perhaps wrestling – instead of ask his nastily little trickster cousin to do it and Dudley wasn't even that big, it was just baby fat. Uncle Vernon, recovering from his shock, grumbled along that Harry probably would've made Dudley loopy and done all sorts of claptrap, and phooey and poppycock like Harry's wasn't to be meddled with. Of course, the conversation had taken a sharp turn into the subject of Dudley, as it usually did.

"Well, if we're all done blowing our noses and talking about me as if I'm not here," Harry said acidly. "I'm going back upstairs."

"Oh, don't you leave just yet," Uncle Vernon said, turning on Harry and narrowing his beady little eyes. "I want you to go to your room–"

"–which is what I just had planned to do," Harry interjected–

"–and I want you to stay in there for three days, with no food or water, and think about what you've done."

This struck Harry as horribly unfair, but then again, Harry's life with Dursleys was a whole lot of unfair with a side of unreasonable. With one last fire-hot glare, Harry treaded up to his room and when he collapsed into his bed, he began planning his escape.

* * *

><p>AN: Please review, leave feedback, ask questions, anything :)


	3. Leaving for Home

Chapter Three

* * *

><p>– <em>LEAVING FOR HOME<em>_ –_

* * *

><p>Harry was in a dark, spacious room … fancy but cluttered … a room that had the feeling of once furnished with splendour and grandeur, but now only filled with dirt and grunge … it was his father's old home … of course, it was no more his father's … ever since Harry had <em>murdered <em>his worthless Muggle father …

Wormtail was at Harry's feet, grovelling as usual … "My Lord, I–I found the second target and I disposed of him like the last one … as you wished…"

Harry laughed, amused … "He put up a fight, did he?" … he indicated at Wormtail's cuts and scars … "Anything for my Lord," Wormtail insisted … he laughed once more …

Harry was even now weak, feeble … his voice still hoarse and his limbs still numb … "Have you made all the necessary movements so our candidates will be installed in their positions? … I have great reason to believe Dumbledore will move our required item elsewhere, perhaps the home of someone he trusts, or somewhere else in the London …"

"My Lord … the Night-Knocker has – as you know, it is one of the only magical beings that can perform magic without wand – made your nemesis's wand the Portkey … our third target will soon touch it and be transported into our willing hands, ready for the exchange …"

"Also, my Lord," Wormtail began, looking fearful … oh, how disgusted Harry's servant made him … the worm, the self-preserving rat … "Will you not only use it … for the original intention, but for other purposes? I–_I think_ – the Ref–"

"_Do not speak of it_!" Harry said sharply … the fool … how freely his tongue spoke … "_Anyone could be listening in_!" … how much idiocy Harry put up with a daily basis … he felt an urge to just murder Wormtail already …

"_I am sorry, I apologise, my Lord_!" Wormtail said obsequiously … he'd better be sorry … "I did not think …"

"Obviously … continue with your query …"

"I – I just thought, the … _desired result _… is incredibly powerful … would you not manipulate it for other uses?" Wormtail asked …

"No, no, my foolish servant … you do not think wisely … it is a powerful, incredibly powerful magical object … it can be manipulated, but not too much … to use it beyond necessity is to bend and possibly destroy all of the past and the future … no, Wormtail, I shall only use it for replenishing my body … no more than that … however, safekeeping it is a wise decision … yes, after we seize it, we shall guard it … who knows what Dumbledore might do if we do not keep possession of it …"

"Yes … of course, my Lord …" Wormtail said, backing down, unwilling to argue … "Yes, that is most wise, master …"

And Harry began laughing, a laugh so high and harsh, clear and cold, that two hundred miles away, the body and mind of Harry Potter reunited once again and he woke up panting, clutching his hand to his white-hot scar.

He lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. After the initial shock wore off, he was aware that the _tapping _was there, the incessant, chilling tapping that, mingled with the indignation at the Dursleys for being the most unfair people he'd ever met, the impatience at Hermione for her very belated reply to his letter and the horrible, fearful dreams where Harry was becoming more and more paranoid he was _becoming _Voldemort, was hurting Harry all the more agitated and tetchy and panic-stricken. The whole absurdity of it all was aching Harry's head, and even more so his aching, smarting scar, bringing agony and excruciation that was gradually ebbing away into numbness.

The dreams – _visions_? – were tormenting Harry immensely. Even in the sickening presence of Wormtail, the treacherous man who had betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort, there was the added horror of seeing the plans unfolding through the eyes of _Voldemort_, seeing the terror developing through the Voldemort's perspective, the Dark Lord's point of view. This chilled Harry to the bone, as the dreams had been going on for months now. Was Harry getting these dreams because the scar Voldemort had given him as an infant still connected them? Were Harry and Voldemort _alike _somehow?

The dreams had talked of an object, an item that Voldemort had needed. Was it something that could replenish Voldemort, something that could bring Voldemort back to his original, physical form? Was it a weapon, something that did things even worse than something a spell, a curse could do? Whatever it was, Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and someone Harry greatly admired, seemed to not only know of it, but also know that Voldemort required it. It sounded horribly powerful and seemed to be something ancient and significant.

Harry remembered something exciting. Voldemort had said "…_Dumbledore will move our required item elsewhere, perhaps the home of someone he trusts, or somewhere else in London_…" What piqued Harry's interest was the fact that Voldemort had chosen the words 'somewhere _else_' which implied that whatever Voldemort needed was in London.

Then, Harry frowned. If Voldemort _knew _where his desired item was, why hadn't he stolen yet? Was he biding his time? Was the place where it was hidden too heavily guarded for a weakened, ailing Dark Lord and his cowardly, snivelling servant to penetrate? Questions and puzzles flew through his head like the Cornish Pixies in a memorable practical Defence lesson with their less-than-competent professor Lockhart.

As Harry pondered this, the creepily rhythmic knocking incessantly continued, and Harry felt himself shiver. Even though it had happened twice before, the knocking made Harry cold to the very core. However, he was educated enough in the previous nights not to run away from the noise nor try and stop it.

The sun rose and the sounds ceased, replaced by a familiar, reassuring hoot from something in the distance. Harry grinned and hefted up the window as he saw Hedwig gliding towards him, carrying an envelope by her feet – but she was also carrying a _Daily Prophet_ newspaper. It was strange; Hedwig never brought him the _Daily Prophet_. The owls that worked for the _Daily Prophet _distribution office were the ones that brought them to Harry for one Knut (though yesterday, Harry, being in a tetchy mood from being kept up all night from the eerie, unnerving tapping noise had violently closed the window in the delivery owl's face).

Hedwig landed gracefully in her cage and stuck out her legs one by one so Harry could take his deliveries. Harry tore open envelope first, which was from Hermione, and pulled out and began reading the letter, which was written in Hermione's neat script.

_Dear Harry,_

_You're very welcome – it was such a hassle to buy the book, if I'm being honest. The shopkeeper kept on telling me they weren't in stock, except for one which was for display, so I used the Gemino Charm on it, and he didn't seem very happy about it. _

_Harry, that sounds like a very serious problem. It can't have been a Dementor, a Boggart or a Lethifold, can it? I mean, because Dementors are tangible and wouldn't have the need to knock and your Boggart's a Dementor, right? Also, Lethifolds are normally cloak-like and carnivorous and though there haven't been many witnesses to Lethifolds, I don't suppose they have any hands to knock with, because_

The whole last paragraph had been scribbled out, like Hermione realised that she was rambling nonsense.

_Harry, basically, I'd never heard of any creature like that before, so I estimated a bit and quickly began to research and turns out, there are actually quite a few creatures that only match your description, but only by half. I guessed Acromantulas would fit the several-legged creature that you recounted, but they usually just directly kill you, so I scratched that out. Next, I guessed it could be Inferi – dead humans brought back to a half-life, you see – but then again, they travel in packs, and you only detailed one entity, plus Inferi only have as many legs as a human. I really was at a loss, and I'm sorry, Harry, and I know you'll be angry, but I _did _contact all the trustworthy, intelligent adults I knew, including the ones you wrote down._

"_Hermione_!" Harry whispered furiously.

_Everybody I wrote to didn't have a clue, but they all told you to keep safe. Lupin, really, was the only one with an answer– _

_He did say that he'd heard of a legend about a dark creature, controlled by a master, usually a wizard or a witch, who the creature saw as the most powerful and did its bidding. The creature, nicknamed a Night Knocker or a Knockturnal, went to its master's enemies or rivals and agitated, frightened and disturbed them. Unfortunately, Lupin doesn't know a cure, or something that can counter it with, other than ignore it. He says to never look at it, for those who have don't survive to see the next morning. He tells you also to not worry too much, as the Night Knocker won't injure you too seriously or kill you in your sleep, but he does caution you that some wizards, terrorised and turned mad by the curse of the Night Knocker, go looking for it and never return. He says You-Know-Who might be the controller of this particular Night Knocker. He tells you not to go out looking for the thing, please._

_Another thing – have you heard Hogwarts will be inspected next year, and our DADA teacher this year is a famous, a little crazed, Ex-Auror named Alastor Moody? Harry, please read the newspaper article I circled and sent to you – it'll be very enlightening._

_BE SAFE, HARRY._

_Yours truly, Hermione._

Though Harry was still incensed about Hermione telling the adults and making them worry, he was grudgingly grateful, because Hermione had managed to find some answers. The best he could do was ignore the knocking when it came at night.

Then he quickly grabbed the _Daily Prophet_, dated yesterday. On the front cover, was a big headline and around the story was a big red circle drawn in a marker, most probably by Hermione. The article read:

_MOURNING 'MAD-EYE' MOODY'S MURDER_

_Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody possibly once the most successful and most famous Auror of all time has been found dead in his secluded, heavily guarded home in Scotland. He was found mutilated, gashed and lacerated beyond belief in his Scottish home. Perhaps we would never have found him, as Moody was a very paranoid and mistrustful person and would hardly let anybody enter his home, but the mailman Zachary Zilch (perhaps the only wizarding mailman, as Moody has an irrational fear of owls) knocked on Moody's door for hours, then became alarmed and wizarding law enforcers were authorised to destroy all protective enchantments. Moody was found dead, and his body was taken by officials to study._

_Moody's death was speculated to be the work of terrorist groups or families of the countless Death Eaters that Moody has imprisoned. A full-scale enquiry will be made about this devastating murder. Nevertheless, we are sad to say that Moody will not be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year and Hogwarts is yet again one teacher short (cont. page 12, column 3)_

Harry furrowed his brow as he read. Underneath the article was Hermione's handwriting, a message saying, _Who'll teach us this year?_

Harry's mind was spinning … the killing of a renowned Auror … the death of a Ministry worker, employed in an enigmatic office … the plans and schemes of Voldemort and Wormtail and what they wanted most dearly … the inspection at Hogwarts … somehow, something in Harry's mind told him they were all linked somehow, all intertwined and interconnected. The thought was making his head burst.

He shook his head, giving up thinking and went back to sleep, too tired from lack of sleep these last few days to do any of his homework.

He woke up as he heard a loud knocking on the door, and then the door slowly opening. In the doorway stood Uncle Vernon, looking gruff.

"We have decided what to do with you," Uncle Vernon said, and behind him, Aunt Petunia and Dudley murmured assent and nodded firmly. "We have decided that you will not have dinner anymore–"

"Won't make a difference really, considering the amount of dinner you give me usually," Harry said loudly, but the Dursleys ignored him.

"You will never leave your room–"

"Gladly!"

"And you _will _from now on go to St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys and no longer attend that – that _freakish _school of yours!"

"_NO_!"

"YES, boy, it's called _justice_!"

"I'll find a way to go to Hogwarts anyway–!" Harry snarled quickly, desperately, defiantly.

All three Dursleys had flinched so violently when he had said Hogwarts's name that Dudley toppled over and tripped Aunt Petunia.

Uncle Vernon was breathing so hard that Harry thought he looked like a murderous tomato that had run a gruelling race. "HOW DARE YOU UTTER YOUR ABNORMALITY TO US, BOY–"

Aunt Petunia shot her husband an imploring look. "The _neighbours_, Vernon–!"

"It's just a_ word_, 'Hogwarts' isn't even a swear word–!"

"_It's not even a word_–!"

"_WHATEVER, I'm still going_!"

"No, you _AREN'T_, boy, not if I have anything to say about it!"

"What can you say when you're too busy stuffing your mouth with candy behind your wife's back–?"

Aunt Petunia screamed, affronted.

Uncle Vernon flushed an ugly red. "_We have raised you not to be rude, we have treated you like a second son–"_

"Oh yeah, so you abuse your son?" Harry said loudly. "You give me your real son's hand-me-downs? You allow your son to be _bullied_?"

"There are limits–" Uncle Vernon said murderously.

"Yeah? This is _my_ limit," Harry said. For some reason, this trivial matter had sparked something inside Harry. No – it had _inflamed _something, fuelled the flames more. The fire had been sparked ages ago. Harry, with thirteen years of pent up rage, withheld flames of fury, felt his hand trembling for his wand. He felt anger and hostility and he now knew he was done with the Dursleys, finished with the people who had abused Harry his entire life. "I'm leaving."

Uncle Vernon stumbled for words. "_YOU_ – I– fine! LEAVE_._"

Uncle Vernon glared, and Harry, feeling anger and rage burst through him, felt a gale of wind rush through him and slam the door in all three of the Dursleys's faces, to the scandalised gasps from Aunt Petunia and the seething of Uncle Vernon. He was too triumphant to care about the impending fact that he'd just used underage magic. He began to pack all his things, chucking his books, parchment and letters violently into his trunk, picking up Hedwig's cage.

Only five minutes later, he stood at the edge of the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive, shouldering his broom and staring blankly at the three people who had abused him his whole life. They felt no regard, no respect or care, feeling perhaps contempt, towards the boy with the lightning scar, who they believed had tarnished and tarried their family from the moment he landed onto their doorstep, and he very mutually returned the feelings, wishing to have lived anywhere else.

He waved curtly, stiffly, and left number four Privet Drive, never looking back to the place he would no longer call home, the place where he spent the worst of fourteen years. There was a sense of of finality, leaving, but it wasn't a sad feeling. It wasn't leaving home. It was leaving _for _home, leaving Privet Drive forever for Hogwarts.

He felt a vague sense of accomplishment, but the hostility, rage and triumph the last ten minutes had brought were swamped by a new, sickening realisation: where _was _he going to stay now? Where was Sirius who had flown away just a few months ago on the back of the recently condemned Hippogriff Buckbeak? Where was Lupin, who was the kindest and most understanding teacher Harry had ever had? He guessed he could go to the Burrow – where Ron Weasley, his best friend, lived – but how would he get there? Last year he had boarded the Knight Bus, the magical, eccentric wizarding transport that Harry wasn't too keen on trying again. Trudging past Privet Drive and onto Magnolia Crescent, he reckoned that the Knight Bus was his best option, and was just about to stick out his arm and hope the conductor Stan Shunpike would come to his aid when he felt something shake and glow in his pocket.

Violently, suddenly, his wand flew from his pocket, landing in the grass ahead of him and emanating a light blue shine. Cautiously, Harry approached his pulsating, radiating wand and reached down to pick it up–

–only to feel as if a hook had caught itself somewhere behind Harry's navel and jerked him swiftly from the earth, sending him spiralling into the sky in a whirlwind of colours and sounds.

* * *

><p>AN: Short chapter :) Please review and leave feedback!


	4. Brain, Blood and Body

Chapter Four

* * *

><p>– <em>BRAIN,<em>_ BLOOD AND BODY__ –_

* * *

><p>Momentarily stunned, Harry finally found his footing again as the dizzying feeling of being the subject of a tornado faded. His wand's light, just a few seconds ago pulsing and glowing, died out at the same time a stabbing pain flared in his forehead where his scar was. There was a whisper, and then a jet of scarlet shot at him and Harry's wand flew high out of his reach. Before he could utter a cry of shock, thin ropes wrapped around him tightly, gagging him and constricting his throat.<p>

For the first time, he looked around; gone was the grass under his feet, replaced by cold, wet stone and gone was the morning sky, replaced by a roof of domed, hard rock dripping water. The whole of Magnolia Crescent was gone, in its stead a vast underground cavern, with a great black lake taking up almost all space. A vague green light shone dimly in the centre of the wide lake and Harry could vaguely see the outline of his wand, which had been Disarmed and thrust twenty metres away, into the shadow of a stalagmite. The encompassing darkness filled Harry's eyes and there were no lights other than the ominous emerald one far in the distance, and the miniature one glowing from another wand tip, the light illuminating the face of none other than Peter Pettigrew.

Though Harry was tied up firmly against what felt like a tall, sharp rock, he felt himself thrashing wildly, trying to grab the treacherous rat in front of him, maybe to choke the life out of him.

Pettigrew – _Wormtail_ – flinched and walked backwards as soon as Harry had burst into anger. "M-My lord?" Pettigrew said timidly, facing something in the blackness. "I have brought you the Potter boy; as expected, the Night Knocker successfully turned the boy's wand into a Portkey." Then, muttering lowly, he said, "One of the only things it can actually do … it can disturb, it can bother, it can even seriously injure, but it cannot _kill_? It is magically unable to kill? How useless."

Then, startling Harry, a voice that once might've been impressive but now sounded ancient and weak said, "I am not blind, Wormtail, I can see he is present. And however weak and ineffective the _Mortenocte _has achieved what I asked of it so far. However, I see you have not given our new … _guest_, the proper hospitalities?"

Wormtail murmured apologies and then raised his wand, muttering something. Fire exploded from the tip, shooting off into different directions until the entire cavern was surrounded by quite a lot of light, giving Harry the ability to see the monstrosity before him.

Wormtail, looking thinner and gaunter since the last time Harry saw him, was cradling a bundle of robes in which a horror Harry had never imagined could exist was crouched feebly. A figure in the shape of a baby with no hair at all, just cracked, raw, scaly skin with veins clearly visible between the pale, bloody flesh. Harry felt nauseous looking at it, and hoped beyond hope that the _thing _wasn't … couldn't be …

"Look at what I have become, Harry," Lord Voldemort whispered, held aloft by Wormtail. "Look at what the most powerful wizard and in history has been reduced to."

"You aren't the most powerful wizard," Harry blurted before thinking. "Albus Dumbledore is."

"Dumbledore is a _fool_!" Voldemort said, and even in his frail form his words were commanding, ringing with power. "He believes that _emotions _can overpower magic, believes that _love_–" he hissed the word with such contempt, such barely concealed loathing that Harry felt like flinching "–can overwhelm even the strongest of wizards. Love is _weakness_, I say, the weakness which exposes and reveals, displays hearts on sleeves, shoves brains and logic aside and puts lives on platters."

Harry had no reply at all, and couldn't have spoken anyway; the narrow ropes were winding and twisting around his body and were gagging his mouth.

Harry watched as Voldemort's body drifted from the black robes and into the air. The dark wizard, with his long, creepy wand glowing in his skeletal hands, floated nightmarishly. As Voldemort neared Harry, the latter's scar inflamed again, burning and aching as if a white-hot poker had touched it.

A metre away, Voldemort stopped. "I wish to explain to you why I have not advanced, why I have not slit your throat or murdered you as of yet. I cannot come any further. The love shield, the sacrificial protection from your disgusting mother when she died does not allow me to approach you any nearer. Should I harm you, or attack you or even _touch _you, I shall burst in flames, be turned to ash, _whatever_, and be once again reduced to a half-life. I am wise enough not to attempt any of this.

"However," Voldemort continued, "this particular enchantment _bothers _me. I am unable to even come in close contact with my nemesis, the one who I so dearly desire to kill. Once Wormtail returned to me, I sought out for a counter-counter-charm, perhaps, or a permanent reversal spell. What I found was a very ancient potion recently nicknamed the Contracoction, a mixture that dissolves almost _all _enchantments and bewitchments, which I am certain will nullify the effects of your Mudblood mother's protection. For months, we travelled the world, not only looking for the ingredients to the archaic potion but weaving more and more plans. Finally, after we found a _Night Knocker_ – oh yes, I'm sure you are aware of what it is – in a remote forest, we made a deal and it has been torturing poor people's nights ever since. As you may have deduced, it is similar to a wizard and turned your wand into a _Portkey _to transport you into our hands, as we really do need you. _Now_," Voldemort said, flicking his wand, "we shall brew the potion!"

A small, empty cauldron appeared from nowhere, a fire lit underneath. Voldemort turned his back on Harry and began chanting ingredients, Wormtail taking them out of his cloak one by one.

"_Water from a lake of silver turned gold_!"

Wormtail took out a bottle of sludgy, gold liquid and poured it into the cauldron–

"_A undead flower from a garden withered_!"

He dropped a dead-looking rose into the golden water and it shrivelled, the contents turning jet black–

"_The breath of death's taint_!"

Wormtail whipped out a glass container with seemingly nothing inside, by upon tipping it into the pot, the blackness turned light grey mingled with white–

"_And a mark of the enchantment itself_!"

What that meant was unknown to Harry and was startled when Wormtail began stumbling towards Harry himself, and Harry noticed that Wormtail had brandished a sharp, short knife. Desperate to get away, he wriggled and writhed beneath the twisting threads, but he could not fight or flee as Wormtail reached him, holding the blade gingerly. Though Harry shut his eyes tight, he could not ignore the incredible pain coursing through him as Wormtail made a deep gash in his arm and Harry opened his eyes to see Wormtail catching the drops of blood with a phial.

With incredible pain in his forehead and in his forearm, he watched through dizzying pain as Wormtail waddled to the cauldron once more and added the few drops of blood and the light grey mixture turned scarlet.

Harry thought he saw a cruel grin on Voldemort's face as Wormtail took out another, bigger phial and filled it with the blood red mixture. Denying the inevitable, Harry watched as Wormtail tottered towards Harry again. Doing as much as he could to evade drinking it, he whipped his head to the side, clamped his mouth shut, tried to kick Wormtail as he got near.

But Voldemort observed this and with a commanding wave of his wand, Harry felt a whole other omniscient force urging his mouth open, pressuring his head in Wormtail's direction. Harry tried to resist as long as he could, but Voldemort's magic proved far greater and impelled him to wrench his mouth open as Wormtail emptied the stream of scarlet into Harry's screaming, swearing mouth.

In that moment, it felt as if something terrible had happened. Like something happy and good and enormously pleasant had always been there with Harry, always been there for him, had been lifted, had been stolen from him, something ingrained and rooted with him since birth that had been taken. Something warm and affectionate had dissolved, not only a protection and a defence, but a reassurance that things were going to be all right. Something friendly, amicable, loving had been whisked from Harry's hands and thrust far, far away, a place he could never reach. In that moment, Harry felt depressing and devastating things crash upon him and he temporarily was confused by it all.

Above all the bafflement and misery was the excruciating torture being inflicted on his scar, like the pleasant protection had once blanketed the pain but now it was absent, leaving only Harry and his hurt.

Voldemort was laughing; he was so happy, so elated and joyful. Experimentally, he flicked his wand at Harry, and agony erupted all over him, and all Harry knew at the moment was _pain_, _pain_, _pain_.

Voldemort, even happier, shout out his wand and Harry's binds were torn, and he felt the air around him push him up, throw him to the right, jerk him to the left. It was all fun and games to Voldemort; for the first time in thirteen years, Voldemort could torture and torment the boy who had destroyed him. Voldemort looked like he was about to murder Harry once and for all, but then muttered, "The plan, think about the plan," and apparently decided not to kill him yet. Voldemort flicked his wand to the side and Harry went tumbling into the cave wall, stone and rock ripping into his shirt and leaving cuts deep within. He had fallen into a part of the cave where there was a tall stalagmite casting a shadow on – and Harry's excitement sparked again – Harry's _wand_.

Laughing mirthfully, Voldemort spoke to Wormtail, who was looking frightened at his master's spectacle. "Peter, where is my other faithful servant – and the Polyjuice Potion?"

Only a few days ago had Harry been writing an essay on Polyjuice Potion, and he felt sick at the thought of Voldemort using it. What could a dark wizard, manipulator and murderer, do with it? Countless things that Harry dared not think about.

"M-My Lord," Wormtail said, bowing. "I shall find him, and the potion."

"Good," Voldemort said, revealing a mouthful of dirty, yellowing teeth.

Wormtail Disapparated – the act of moving from one place to another in a matter of seconds – making a snapping noise and Voldemort turned to Harry, who was lying in a pool of his own blood.

"Tell me, Harry, what do you think _these _are?" Voldemort said, rising his wand slowly as monstrous beings began climbing up from the black lake and onto the stone. There were dozens of them, humanoid, bloody creatures on all fours, with blank, misted eyes. Harry felt revolted as he noticed that a few of them were missing limbs, even eyes.

Harry fell silent and didn't respond.

"_Answer me_," Voldemort commanded, sweeping his wand in the air in one motion, and again, something forced Harry, impelled to answer.

"_I don't know_," Harry wheezed and the omnipotent hold ceased, and he fell limp again.

"They are called Inferi," Voldemort said, apparently experiencing much glee in forcing his nemesis to speak. "They are reanimated human corpses, and they do as I say. One of my more creative ideas, yes? Kill people – and then make them my slaves."

"_You're sick_!" Harry yelled and experienced a stab of pain ripping at all his muscles, tendons and skin as Voldemort spitefully flicked his wand again.

"I am simply using the force of nature, the force of mankind: kill or be killed–"

Harry slowly inched closer to his wand, careful to only move when Voldemort was busy looking at his Inferi, which were dangerously closer and seemed to be looking at Harry–

"–however, I am much more than a _man_, much more than a filthy Muggle–"

Harry shifted slightly as Voldemort frowned, peering closer at his Inferi and talking only distractedly–

"–I can control the darkest of creatures, tame the wildest of beasts to follow my command–"

The Inferi were most certainly staring intensely at Harry; he'd seen that look before … the look of a house-elf waiting for its master's orders–

"–I am even unique within the wizarding community, more powerful and potent than any other … I can control … _I _… _can't_…? _Inferi, _I _am your master_–"

But the Inferi certainly didn't believe so, they thought _Harry _was _Voldemort_, they thought Harry was their master, and in such a desperate situation, Harry scrambled forwards for his wand and pointed it at the levitating wizard above him–

"_EXPELLIARMUS_!" Harry bellowed, and Voldemort, completely immersed in the mystery of his disobedient Inferi, was taken aback as his wand flew into the direction of the water. Voldemort, his wand and magic momentarily gone, fell from the air and shrieked as he fell face-first into the rocky floor.

Harry got up and began sprinting towards the lake where the Inferi were sitting in dutiful wait, anticipating patiently for Harry's orders. "_SWARM HIM_!" Harry hollered, pointing at Voldemort who was struggling to get up in his physically invalid form.

Immediately, all the Inferi stood and ran like a pack of ravenous wolves, and pounced onto the screaming Dark Lord. A jet of small fire from the midst of the chaos exploded and shot down some of the Inferi, and shot at Harry, narrowly missing him. _Voldemort could do wandless, wordless magic?_

Picking up Voldemort's wand from the sludgy lake water, he ran down it, making obvious splashing noises. Harry pocketed Voldemort's wand, hoping that without it, Voldemort wouldn't be able to do any serious magic. Hauntingly enough, the Inferi left at the lake seemed to be aiding Harry, serving as a pathway for him in the quickly increasing water levels, crouching underneath his feet like a weird, undead body road.

Where would Harry go? He supposed there would haveto be _some_ means of escape, a doorway or a small crack through the rocks where he could get out and find out where he was and try and find a way back to number four Privet Drive, which, in retrospect, was a much better option than this cave.

As he approached the misty green light, he realised there was a semi-large island in the centre of the lake, which he was glad to arrive on, because it was highly difficult to step on bodies without sinking and the whole concept of it all was creepy anyway.

He stepped onto the island and saw a great big basin in the middle. He approached it warily, and saw it was filled with a murky, emerald green liquid and at the bottom of it was an expensive-looking locket with a green gem encircled with a gold chain.

Enchanted and captivated, he reached down to touch it, to grasp the locket and observe it closer, when an Inferius jumped out of the water and hissed.

"_Master…_" the Inferius said, and Harry was horrified and shocked, having not realised the Inferi could speak. "_You cannot touch the Drink of Despair … you know that … you invented it ... somebody must drink it …_"

Another Inferius leaped out. "_I shall do the honour of drinking it for you, my master …_"

"_No_!" hissed another. "_I shall_!"

It looked like this argument would end up in a bloody brawl, so Harry quickly intervened and pointed at a random Inferius. "You – you can drink it."

"_Gladly_," it said, and around him there were mutterings of disdain and jealousy from the other Inferi.

The Inferius bounded up the basin like a monkey, took a shell-like cup from the rim of the basin and scooped up the dark liquid. As it drank continuously, Harry felt nauseated as the Inferius howled in pain, itching at its sides and sobbing without tears. It ripped at its own skin and, disconcertingly, no blood dropped from the undead body.

Finally, it seemed, it became too much for the one Inferius and it writhed in agony and fell across the floor, sinking into the water. Excited, the other Inferi waited in what seemed to be a queue. None of them lasted for more than a few scoops of the Drink of Despair, and after what seemed to be an eternity, the basin was empty except for the locket.

Gingerly, Harry lifted the locket up by the long chain and examined the large, oval locket made of heavy gold, a serpentine _S _made of green jewels set into the front. It was so beautiful, so entrancing, but there was a dark shadow behind it, something mysterious and not exactly good … something that made Harry ill but elated at the same time … something that eased Harry's tongue forward, lowered his teeth, made him begin to hiss an odd language discovered, a language he never knew he knew how to speak–

And now he remembered, remembered that two years ago his incompetent teacher Gilderoy Lockhart had tried to Obliviate Harry with Ron's broken wand … but the charm had _slightly _worked, making him forget about learning his skill allowing him to speak to snakes, a talent he had unearthed when standing in front of the doors to the Chamber of Secrets, where snakes had slid around him and conversed; nobody knew of this skill except him … now he remembered that also Voldemort could speak to snakes … this connection interested and intrigued Harry greatly …

The locket burst open at Harry's words at the same time a Summoning Charm was uttered and Voldemort's wand flew from Harry's pocket.

A thousand things happened at once.

Voldemort, who had apparently overcome the Inferi, now had his wand, and flicked it threateningly several times, waves of heat exploding and flames beginning to stream freely from the wand's tip–

The Inferi shrieked raucously, gratingly as they fled from the cursed flames; like all dark creatures, the Inferi feared heat, light, fire–

The locket, having unlocked and left wide open, was exonerating fierce, black smoke, fog that was clouding the things before him, harsh mist that whispered callous, unkind things in Harry's ears, showed him mental images of his mother and father dying, of his best friends injured and harmed–

Wormtail Apparated next to Voldemort, looking a bit worried, but was astonished when he saw the chaos that was happening–

Almost instantly, more wizards Apparated into the cave, all of them wearing the official robes of Ministry workers, perhaps they were Aurors, the dark wizard catchers; they saw what was happening and quickly reacted, whipping out their wands and sending jinxes and hexes at Voldemort and Wormtail–

But Wormtail was quicker, and he grabbed onto his master's forearm and used Side-Along Apparition, where he brought someone else along with him during his Apparition–

The cursed inferno was still blazing and was surging violently at Harry; instinctively, he threw up his arms, but in his haste, the locket slid from his hands and flew directly at the fiery beast billowing at him–

The locket spun and swirled mid-air and it crashed into the blaze oddly; it collided with the firestorm, and, amazingly, it did not obliterate immediately, but absorbed the impact and was filled with the mass of uncontrollable conflagration–

An ear-splitting scream echoed throughout the cave and the locket fire withheld unstably in the locket exploded from within, the locket cracking and breaking into a million shards–

The fire released from the locket, which couldn't just be any ordinary locket, was so terrible and it was still so alive, swarming in every direction–

The Aurors, satisfied they had done all they could, Apparated away and left Harry thinking that he would be abandoned inside the cave on his own, but another Auror, a black, bald, tall man ran at him and grabbed his arm–

The flames swarmed into one, pointed arrow and speeded rapidly at him–

Only a bit of blaze grazed his skin as the Auror and Harry were taken from the cave, in a similar experience to using a Portkey. Harry felt his insides churn and his brain melt as all his molecules and his cells burned and his and the Auror's bodies crammed together, squashed, a loud _SNAP _resounding as they left the cave, disappearing into the sky in a stream of garbled sounds and coalesced colours.

* * *

><p>AN: I really would appreciate it if you guys could review, give me feedback, ask questions, etc. :)


	5. Saints at Mungo's

Chapter Five

* * *

><p><em>– SAINTS AT MUNGO'S –<em>

* * *

><p>The next few days that passed were a blur. Harry was vaguely aware of incredible pain in his leg, and then Apparating on the threshold of a house with a battered door, grimy windows and filthy walls, with a dusty number <em>12 <em>set into it. He heard cries of shock and outrage – "_Kingsley, you thickhead, you can't just bring anybody and show them our headquarters_!" – and the deep voice of the man clutching Harry's arm defending himself – "He isn't anybody, I wasn't going to leave the _Boy Who Lived_ there!"

Next he knew, he was swept up into nothingness again, Apparating into a crowded reception area. It was filled with witches and wizards, some sitting on wooden seats, some queuing up in a long, winding line in front of an Inquiries desk, where a Welcomewitch sat, the words _St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries _floating above her. Kingsley half-dragged, half-carried him over and he was aware of faint arguing, as if it were happening a mile away, distancing farther and farther … and then nothing.

He woke up a few times, the first time dizzy and woozy, opening his eyes and realising he was wrapped up snugly in a hospital bed, with a very odd assortment of people. Mr and Mrs Weasley were sitting on a visitor's seat, the former frowning and thinking hard, the latter looking fretful and close to tears; Ron, Fred and George (the two Weasley twins), both looking anxious; Dumbledore, looking merely thoughtful and dreamy, towering everybody else; and a brooding, quiet Kingsley Shacklebolt, whom Harry recognised from the _Daily Prophet _Auror photographs.

Nobody noticed him open his eyes, and they were equally unaware as sleep took him over again.

The next time he woke, Mr Weasley, one of the Weasley twins and Kingsley Shacklebolt were gone. There sat Hermione Granger who was talking quietly with Ron, Dumbledore who once again was seated by himself, looking peaceful and amicable, Mrs Weasley who was agitatedly fixing one of the twins' hair and a huge, black dog whom Harry recognised as Sirius in his Animagus form.

Hermione saw Harry's eyes open and hissed, "_He's awake_!"

Everybody rushed over to him, but by this time he had already gone cross-eyed and fallen asleep again.

He closed his green, almond-shaped eyes and opened them, but this time they were scarlet slits. He was not in a hospital … he was in a dark alleyway, Wormtail cowering below him … Harry was furious … furious at Wormtail … the stupid fool … Wormtail had been unable to find his most faithful servant … oh yes, when _Harry _had found the defected little Crouch, he made sure to punish him severely … he was furious at that Order of the Phoenix for interrupting … Dumbledore's band of reckless, foolhardy idiots … Harry had been just about to finish off his nemesis once and for all, when they had interrupted … when Harry was back to full strength, he made sure to murder them all brutally … oh, but there was someone else who Harry so desired to slit the throat of, to watch in glee as the light left his eyes … the boy with the lightning scar, the one who had survived by circumstance, the one with a boatload sheer dumb luck … oh, how Harry wished to make that scar wider, bigger, not a scar, but a deep, deep gash, unhealable … he had slipped from Harry's hands again, the Boy Who Lived who was the focal point of the plan to infiltrate Hogwarts, the boy who had escaped Harry's clutches … the months of hard work and scheming had not paid off … the boy who had unknowingly destroyed one of the Horcruxes … Harry felt a horrible rage overwhelm him … he wanted to _kill _the boy … the boy called Harry Potter …

Even in this murky, underwater-esque state, Harry frowned. That cannot have been right … _Harry Potter _was _himself_, the Dark Lord, the one whose name sent shudders down the wizarding world's spine, the once powerful rulerof the Death Eaters, the deviser of so many plans that months, all of which had been foiled by one stupid child named … well, Harry Potter. Perplexity coursed through him, then irritation. If he himself was not Harry Potter, _who was_? That boy – that talentless, unskilled _child _– cannot have be Harry … can it? The intricacy and complexity of the whole thing made Harry wrathful, like a child unable to understand a simple question.

Slowly, the answer came to him … Harry was not the Dark Lord … Harry was not the Enemy … Harry was _both _… both of these personas … the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived were one and the same … Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter were interconnected and intertwined … they were twins, brothers, father and son, enemies, friends … _how_?

_HOW_? Harry shrieked at the universe, the tumbling, stormy sky, unnaturally dark for daytime … how was it possible? … it couldn't have been what Harry's instinct thought of … no, that was impossible … _NO_! _NEVER_! … how unstable did that make Harry? … he felt ill now, felt unsteady, shaky, unsafe … and Harry – Voldemort – Harry – _Voldemort_, screamed at the top of his lungs, because it meant that the one he so sorely wanted to kill would have to stay alive … would have to continue thriving … _NO_!

And Harry woke up screaming, his scar inflamed and agonised, his mind completely foggy and the contents of the latest dream wiped from his mind. He was still in his bed in St. Mungo's, but this time he was alone. Visiting hours must have expired because he could see by the darkness of the ward that it was night time.

This position was all too familiar to him; lying in bed panting and sweating, hand clutched to throbbing scar. When his heartbeat calmed down and the pain subsided, he let his hand hang limp. Why couldn't he remember the dream? Because the previous dreams had been, well, _dreams_, some bits and pieces were missing from his memory, but this … this felt like a huge chunk of his history had been removed, so there was _nothing _there, a blank space where something _should _be.

Shaking the disconcerting thoughts from his head, where the pain had finally alleviated, and the loud and worried thoughts left his heard, allowing him to hear something all too familiar coming from the door of the ward–

_Knocking_.

Faint but insistent, it was chilling to know that the knocking had followed Harry from his room in number four, Privet Drive to a hospital. Would the Night Knocker follow Harry wherever he went? Gritting his teeth, he sat up in the bed, only to feel a sharp pain in his forearm, where magical cast bound his left arm. To his left was a table where his wand and several potions, including sleep-inducing brews for Healers, like Drowse Draught, Snooze Booze and Hyptonic were. With his right arm, he swiped and then swigged the Draught, feeling light-headed and dizzy afterwards and promptly falling down into his bed once more in a deep, undisturbed slumber.

The next time his eyes opened, it was early morning, with pale sunlight leaking through the windows. For the first time, he noticed the other patients in the ward, clearly labelled Severe Spell Injuries. There were only four others; one person missing both arms, another sporting pustules all over their body (some of which exploded nauseatingly), another with something looking startlingly like tentacles sneaking out of her bandages, and the last of which was so heavily wrapped up that Harry could only see the man's eyes.

In the visitor's area sat Hermione and Ron who were fearfully holding hands. Despite himself, Harry grinned.

"Want to get a room? Bet there're plenty in this place," said Harry.

Ron violently snatched his hand away at the same time Hermione hastily withdrew hers. They cast reproachful looks at each other, and then Hermione jumped up and ran to Harry's bedside. "_Harry_! Are you okay?"

Grunting and feeling pain flowing through his whole body, especially his limbs, he muttered, "I've felt better. Guys, you two are saints for visiting me, I really appreciate it," he said, and he _did_, feeling warmth spread from the centre of his chest to the rest of his body. He always felt happy in the presence of his two best friends, no matter how different the three of them were to each other.

"Mate, you gave us a right scare," Ron added, walking up beside Hermione. "We thought you were – _you know _– done for."

"I don't get why anyone would think that," Harry said. "I mean, sure I got some cuts and bruises, but it isn't like I–"

"–came in very close contact with cursed fire?" Hermione finished. "That was _Fiendfyre_ that touched you, Harry, it's the fire infused with dark magic. It's really hard to control and I guess it acted like a curse, burning through your flesh and entering blood system and I'm really surprised you're still alive. I mean, it says it all in _Enchantments & Bewitchments: Their Advantages and Drawbacks_," – and then Hermione made a sudden angry, indignant sound that made Ron jump – "_Ugh_! That was one of the _only _defensive books I haven't memorised yet – but somewhere in page three hundred and ninety-four … passage seven, I think, it says that cursed elements like water, air, fire – they all react negatively to regular life forms, so a lot of us thought you wouldn't make it, and I personally wouldn't be surprised if you're out of commission for a month or so – but the Healers at St. Mungo's are really experienced and they'll probably cut that down to half."

Harry and Ron exchanged half-amused, half-bemused looks. Slowly, Harry spoke over Hermione's ravings that she really should have memorised all the seventh year curriculum books by now. "Hermione," Harry said cautiously. "I'll be fine."

"_I know, I know_!" Hermione cried and then suddenly burst into tears. Harry's arms were cast in gauze and dressing, so Ron awkwardly reached over to pat her back. Hermione's words sounded thick and unclear. "Harry, we _were_ so worried, I mean, you must try and imagine how it must've been to everyone else – first, the Ministry sent around a letter for underage magic, something about an accidental Ventus Jinx, but then the Ministry can't find you and suddenly everybody's really anxious – then they send _everybody _important looking around for you, using Tracking Charms, Detection Jinxes, _everything _and nobody can come up with anything of use."

"Yeah," Ron said, nodding. "Then some bloke left behind at the Ministry while everybody else is out searching finds that there's a bunch of magic called … er, how do you say it?"

"Martial magic," Hermione said, sounding exasperated.

"Right. So there's this martial magic used in this cave in a Muggle-inhabited area and that bloke looks into it further and finds _you_, using Disarming Charms and everything – and the same guy goes out to alert everyone else, but Dumbledore catches on first, and _he _tells his reinstated Anti-You-Know-Who group or whatever and they Apparate into the cave … but what's really odd is that they almost immediately Apparated back, and then _Kingsley Shacklebolt_, that Auror bloke, Apparated with you into St. Mungo's. After about a day, everyone found out and we came rushing here, and mum's been worried sick ever since – oh, and so has Hermione, I've always said there isn't much difference–"

"Amusing, Ron," said Hermione, and then she turned back to Harry. "Yes, Harry, though how inaccurate Ron's _usual _narrations are, he has been telling the truth. We _have _been nervous, really anxious–"

"We thought you were going to die!" Ron interrupted. "Especially Hermione!"

"No," Hermione said acidly. "_You _thought he was going to die, _I _had faith in the Healers–"

"_Pfft_, who was the one bawling their eyes out before about how you didn't think Harry was going to make it–"

"Well, _excuse me_, I'm sorry that _I _talk about more important things other than how many goals the _Cuddly Cannons _have missed this season–"

"Chudley Cannons, it's _Chudley _Cannons–"

"Guys," Harry said, supressing a grin. "Don't fight for once, _please_."

Hermione and Ron both rolled their eyes and turned their backs on each other in unison and Harry couldn't fight the smile.

"What are you beaming at?" Hermione said suspiciously, turning her head as if looking for a clown.

Seeing Ron whip his head around simultaneously and bump his head into Hermione's, Harry bit down hard on his lip and said, "Nothing."

A burly, blonde man carrying a roll of newspaper strode through the door of the Ward for Severe Spell Injuries. He walked over to the heavily wrapped man, who widened his eyes as if brightened and happy at the new arrival.

Hermione's mood changed drastically in seeing the newspaper. "_Ooh_, I wasn't at my house this morning, I wouldn't have gotten the _Prophet_!"

She hurried over the man, who was alarmed and looked uncomfortable as Hermione asked if he could lend her the newspaper. As he passed the newspaper over to Hermione, he seemed unsettled, checking his watch multiple times.

Ron whispered to Harry, grinning. "Mental, she is, didn't I tell you that in our first year? Going up to strangers and asking stuff from them …"

Hermione came back to them, holding the roll of newspaper out to them; she flattened it out wide, and the very first headline made Hermione gasp.

"NO!" she yelled, snatching the paper up and pointing wildly at the largest heading, in bold, black print.

_GRISELDA GREY: CANDIDATE FOR MINISTER FOR MAGIC_

_It has been long known that many deem Cornelius Fudge as incompetent without the real qualities to become Minister. It has also been known that Griselda Grey, Vice-Chief of the Wizengamot and Ministry's Head of British Magical Education, has long since been regarded as a much more reliable, trustworthy figure in modern magical Britain's political structure. Only two days ago did Griselda convince her colleagues to file a law to further strengthen our protection against dangerous inferiors, though her first action based on the law was stopped by Albus Dumbledore, the forever-controversial Headmaster of Hogwarts School, which Griselda will inspect later this year. Finally yesterday Griselda has decided what will be a major turning point into what will be a golden age for magical Britain._

"_For a while," Griselda announces to the audience several hundreds of listeners, "I have thought Cornelius made quite a few mistakes, which is very human. However, Cornelius does not _learn _from his several blunders, and the past years have become error after error in Cornelius's rule. Today, I desire to change this. According to the wizarding laws, any person with correct qualifications may challenge the Minister. I challenge the Minister for Magic for his role," she finished to a whole-hearted applause._

_Griselda is allowed to do challenge the rule of Fudge as she has the proper documents and qualifications; she is now the candidate of the newly formed Iron Party, the opposition of Fudge's Gold Party. She has confirmed that the campaigns shall begin officially on the 1__st__ of September and the voting shall be on the 1__st__ of January. _

_(Cont. page 3 for Fudge's reaction)_

Hermione widened her eyes in alarm and flicked to page three and speed-read the passage so fast that Harry and Ron hardly began it before she slammed shut the newspaper in shock.

"It's _absurd_!" Hermione said loudly, over the squelching of popping pustules. "She can't possibly – it's impossible –" then Hermione stopped, thinking. "Well, nothing's _impossible_, clearly, we all go to a magical boarding school named _Hogwarts_ – but I've read all about her, that Griselda Grey, that's not even her real name, she changed it from something else and she _destroys _anyone who mentions her real name, she destroys their reputation, incidents happen to their family, oh she's _horrible_! And that's not even the worst of it: she treats house-elves less than helpers, more like _slaves_, she _beats _them and _punishes _them if they don't do _exactly_ what she says – "_Discipline and dedication towards superiors is imperative_" is her excuse – oh, and she's signed several anti-werewolf, centaur and mermaid legislations – "_half-breeds must realise their place in the world as beneath us_", HOW DARE SHE? She's absolutely _horrid_ – she doesn't even know the definition of half-breed, she's both prejudiced _and_ stupid – and she tried to create one to make it a law, a _sport_, to round them up and slaughter them – "_danger to society_", more like _she's_ a danger to society – and, _plus_, she doesn't even _work _in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!"

"Then why–?" Harry began, but Hermione cut him off viciously.

"Oh, I'll tell you why," she said hotly. "Everybody loves her, because she's _powerful _and _pure-blooded_ and _pretty _and _rich_! Her grandfather – have no idea who it is, she covers up her history so heavily like she covers up her face with _make-up _– gave millions of Galleons to the Ministry as _friendly, financial assistance _and then when she was immediately offered a spot in the Ministry without seemingly any certificates or eligibility it was because of _gratitude because of previous, kind donations_, oh, but what they _really _mean is that _nobody would like her unless her granddad had given them dosh_. They let her do _anything _and I'm really convinced she's a fraud like Lockhart or something, because she's much too vapid and devoid of real intelligence to write those long, _drawn-out_ speeches. _And _they're letting her inspect Hogwarts. _It's horrible_! She _hates _Hogwarts because" – and now Hermione had sort of a twisted smile – "when she was eleven, she and her brother did something so _terrible_ to a Muggle – did I mention that she's a pure-blood supremacist? – that she was banned from coming to Hogwarts and she was forced to go to some ratty, poor institution called Frogfeet. _HA_! _And _she was expelled, but nobody cares because _her grandfather gave the Ministry money. _Our justice system is _appalling _but when that horrible – horrible – _hag _comes to Hogwarts, I'll make sure I find out _everything _about that _cow_and I'll uncover _all_ her _dirty little secrets_ just like I'll _rip off _that almost-as-thick-as-her-head layer of make-up from her smug face."

By this time, her narrowed eyes were glistening with angry tears. "I _hate _her. She's such an awful person."

"Hermione … maybe you should calm down a bit …" Ron trailed off, looking concerned.

"She found out Hagrid's a half-giant," Hermione said, her voice trembling. Harry had never heard of this before, but wasn't shocked or startled at all; Hagrid was still the same person as he was a few seconds ago, when Harry didn't know this piece of information.

"So?" Harry said.

Hermione's voice wavered again, but this time it was with fury instead of withheld tears. "_She hates half-humans, Harry_! When she found out there was a half-giant employed at Hogwarts tried to get him fired, and when that didn't work, she told her friends at the Magical Creatures Department to make a law that half-breeds proven to be dangerous were allowed to be hunted and slain by the Ministry. _She went to Hagrid's hut and tried to attack him_. If it weren't for Dumbledore, Hagrid would probably be dead by now. _That _was the "_new law to further strengthen our protection against dangerous inferiors_" in that _Prophet _article."

Harry suddenly felt as angry as Hermione looked. As before when Dudley had insulted Hagrid, Harry felt a surge of rage at anybody insulting or harming the very first parental figure in his life, a best friend and a father.

Harry said, "She can't be Minister. She can't."

"_I know_–"

Ron spoke up timidly. "Harry … Hermione …"

"Yes?" Hermione said and looked at Ron, who was gingerly pointing at the article beneath the enormous _GRISELDA GREY: CANDIDATE FOR MINISTER FOR MAGIC _story. It was short clipping talking about ex-Death Eaters sighted in London. There were three moving pictures, one of a man with a long, pale, twisted face, another pockmarked, greasy-haired Death Eater and the last another black-haired, sturdily built man, all of them snarling at Harry.

"That man …" Harry said quietly.

He looked up at the heavily bandaged person whose eyes were looking directly at Harry and was making muffled sounds. No … it wasn't happiness the widened eyes were expressing … it was alarm, panic …

Harry looked at the newspaper where the mugshots were – the paper labelling the last man as Thorfinn Rowle – and back to the bulky man who was regularly checking his watch. The man in the photograph had dark hair and plenty of stubble, while this new man had lighter hair and was clean-shaven, but there was no denying it; they were both one and the same.

Harry was just about to tell his friends, grab his wand and Stun the man, when Thorfinn Rowle checked his watch once more, grinned a toothy, unpleasant smile and all the lights in the room, the hallway outside and probably the entire hospital went out. Thorfinn drew his wand faster than Harry could think; he knocked Ron and Hermione out with Stunning Spells shot exuberantly and promptly ran outside, hooting gleefully and casting hexes in every direction.

A stray spell hit Harry directly in the face and he saw nothing more.


	6. The Death Eaters

Chapter Six

* * *

><p><em>– THE DEATH EATERS –<em>

* * *

><p>For the fourth time, he woke up in his hospital bed, dazed.<p>

With the one arm that wasn't completely bound, Harry fumbled around the bedside table for a while, groping around for his wand. Finally, his hand found a short, thin stick and he whispered, "_Lumos_."

A small light appeared at the tip of Harry's wand. Knowing this wasn't nearly enough light for him to see properly, he muttered a Light Localising Charm and simultaneously lamps, lanterns and torches all around the room were switched on, allowing Harry to see.

All the beds were empty and upturned; a few bits of furniture were reduced to splinters; the magical lantern hanging from the roof was swaying precariously; the wall had a huge hole inside it, which showed another room which didn't looking any better; nobody else was in the room – other than Ron, whose tips of his shoes were sticking out from under the bed and lying down in the exact same position he had fallen in when Thorfinn Rowle had knocked him out; it seemed, too, that Ron had been asleep through the destruction and ruination of the room. The words 'Severe Spell Damage' on the wall were tarnished and vandalised, written over with a message saying: _MUD BLOOD SHALL BE SPILLED._

Highly disturbed, Harry muttered, "_Diffindo_," and pointed at his casts. Immediately, they ripped open and Harry began to slide out from the bed, feeling incredible pain in his left leg as he did so. As he staggered out of the bed, he saw a horrifyingly nasty burn that stretched from his thigh to his foot. Every step inflamed the injury.

"Ron – _Ron – _wake up!" Harry hissed, hopping awkwardly to his friend's side.

"…huh? Wh-what?" Ron mumbled blearily, getting to his feet. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. "What – what happened to this place? Where's 'Er-my-knee?"

"I don't know, Ron," Harry said quickly and he was suddenly on edge – the words on wall combined with the fact that Hermione, the only Muggleborn in their group, was missing alarmed Harry. "We need to find her."

"Yeah, you're right," Ron said, nodding, half-confident, half-apprehensive, and watched as Harry cast a Bandaging Charm on his leg.

"Harry," Ron said timidly. "Do you think you're allowed to use magic? You're the Boy Who Lived, but you're still a kid…"

"Yeah, but kids can use magic in life-threatening situations. I think this counts," Harry said darkly and they began to walk.

Together, Ron supporting Harry, they stumbled from the 'Severe Spell Damage' ward and passed several other wards with their doors swung open, labelled from anything like 'Minor Accidental Magic' 'Incorrectly-Applied Transfiguration' and 'Charms Gone Wrong', to 'Backfiring Hexes,' 'Unliftable Curses' and 'Permanent, Incurable Injuries'. The more they walked, the Bandaging Charm eased Harry's wound so he didn't need Ron's support, but he knew that later when the Charm faded, the pain would return. Messages similar to the ward Harry had been in were scattered all over the place. As they went down the hallway – the desecrated walls decorated with several once-impressive portraits of famous Healers now askew, vandalised and obliterated – Harry noticed that there was absolutely nobody else in these halls, and he and Ron were using the Wand-Lighting Charm to guide their way down the unlit corridor. Next to Harry, Ron looked slightly horrified by the wrecked and ruined place.

"Where's everyone?" Ron said, his voice quivering. "And why's everything destroyed?"

Harry shrugged. "Suppose it has something to do with that Thorfinn Rowle bloke who broke into our ward?"

"Maybe," Ron said and they stopped talking.

They arrived at a flight of stairs going downwards, and they sprinted down into a second floor labelled POTION AND PLANT POISONING. This floor, too, did not have anybody, but they heard a familiar tapping coming from behind them. Ron, overcome with curiosity, wanted to go near the sound and find the source, but Harry, sickeningly aware of what it was dragged Ron down the dark corridor. They ran past doors ominously named and darted down the stairs two steps at a time.

The third floor they arrived in was the same. MAGICAL BUGS was filled with empty, wrecked wards labelled 'Scrofungulus', 'Spontaneous Combustion Sickness' and 'Dragon Pox' and all sorts of strange wizarding illnesses Harry couldn't pronounce. One ward's door was unlabelled and locked and didn't look like it was opening anytime soon; it was the only metal door that Harry had seen in the hospital, and it was bound with chains and locks. Not wanting to go near it, Harry and Ron felt the déjà vu, running down the gloomy, dim passage, grabbing Ron's arm, and sprinting away from the insistent tapping.

On the second-last floor, there was someone there. In the CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES floor, all but one of the wards were empty. With the dim light their wands cast, Harry and Ron saw a skinny, topless man feebly crawl from a door classified as 'Untreatable Creature Bites'. The man, whose ankle had a strange, red, triangle-shaped bite mark on it, was muttering unintelligible things and twitching sporadically

Harry made his way towards the man slowly, maybe to ask if he was okay, when Ron grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Ron looked at Harry like he was mad. "Harry, _that man's been bitten by a Terrapine_! You can tell by the triangle bite. Don't go near him, Harry."

"What's a Terrapine?" Harry asked, only half listening.

"They're wild creatures, Terrapines," Ron said, looking worried. "If they bite you, you get _loopy_ and pretty uncontrollable."

"Then why can't I go near him?" Harry asked.

"Well," Ron said, looking a bit uncomfortable. "There's this legend that if a Terrapine-infected person touches you … you go round the bend too!"

Harry felt like this aversion to these infected people was not at all different to how other wizards and witches treated werewolves. "Well, yeah? Fine, then. We've been too distracted – we haven't even found Hermione yet. Do you think she's not even in this hospital?"

Again, they had no answers, so Harry across the room, Ron following (though looking very apprehensive as he sprinted over the moaning, murmuring victim of a Terrapine's bite). As they descended down the fourth flight of stairs, they heard screaming and shouting and Harry sped up.

Down he went along with Ron, the constant tapping following close behind, and they stopped on the last step, watching the horror unfold below. Harry felt a sick feeling as he realised what was happening. In the spacious, wide lobby, dozens of cloaked, masked figures were standing in a circle, floating unconscious people, some bleeding and bruised, some fine, with their wands, laughing jubilantly. Obviously, these cloaked people were jibing and chortling unpleasantly as they abused and attacked the floating, sleeping people, knocking them into walls or smashing them into chairs. Most of the victims were children – and one of them was Hermione–

Ron, furious, began to dart out when Harry yanked him back, dragging him back up the stairs and back into shrouded darkness. The Terrapine-diseased man was absent, scarily.

"_Ron_, we can't, there are two of us, there are fifty of them–"

"_They have Hermione_–"

"I know, we just have to _plan_ something–"

"_THEY HAVE HERM–_"

"_Quiet_!"

"I'm not going to be quiet, they have Hermione–"

"_Shh, someone's coming_–"

And indeed, from the top of the winding staircase, they could hear accumulating footsteps pounding against the floor from the far end of the corridor. Drawing out their wands, they were about to cast spells at the direction of what seemed to be a mass of dozens of people–

"_Ron_! _Harry_!"

The voice of Mrs Weasley came from the midst of the moving crowd, and it sounded like she squeezed through the throng of people raising their wands – "_Move, move, it's my sons_!" – and she appeared, short, plump, kind-faced, and waddled her way to them.

"_Mum_," Ron said exasperatedly as she pulled the two of them into a tight hug.

"Mrs Weasley," Harry said quickly, "what's happened? Where're the lights? Why are there people downstairs abusing other people?"

"It's been awful," Mrs Weasley said, close to tears. "I – _we_ –" she said, gesturing to the front row of the three-dozen people behind her that Harry looked at closely for the first time; there was Mr Weasley, Fred and George, Dumbledore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lupin and a black, shaggy dog, "– came to visit you in your bed, and we left for the night, and in the morning, Ron and Hermione desperately wanted to stay of course, so we were all in the tearoom, waiting for news on your progress. It was shocking when the lights all turned off – and imagine our shock when we found out there were ex-Death Eaters in every hospital ward, disguising as visitors! Well, they're not _really _Death Eaters – they're just purists who want to stir up trouble, they're the ones who've been doing those attacks these past two months. There was chaos, the Death Eaters casting hexes and curses everywhere and taking all the Muggleborns downstairs into the ground floor and forcing everybody else in the fifth floor. We thought they'd taken _you_ two as well," Mrs Weasley wailed. "We couldn't find you – oh, you were in the Spell Damage floor, weren't you? We couldn't go outside the tearoom for fear of the Death Eaters, and they couldn't come out because of fear of Dumbledore."

Mr Weasley stepped forward, patting his wife on the back as she sobbed. "Yes, Molly's correct. We were in a right state, pushed back into the tearoom while we waited for the Death Eaters to leave. We can't contact the Ministry, because the Death Eaters have turned all the Scrying Bowls and Floo Network connections off. We can't Disapparate, make a Portkey or send an owl obviously, because the only way to do that is to get to the lobby, which is free of enchantments. Thought that's where the Death Eaters are _playing _with their food." Mr Weasley looked loathing as he spoke of the Death Eaters, which Harry had read were Lord Voldemort's supporters.

"That's why we've decided to counter-attack," Lupin said, stepping forward. Remus Lupin, werewolf, had been one of the best professors Harry had ever had, and he felt reassured, even though Lupin looked as shabby as ever.

"The children are all upstairs back in the fifth floor," Mrs Weasley said, and Harry thought he heard the stern parent in her rise up again. "All the adults" – she waved at the collection of curious wizards and witches listening in into the conversation, most of which were strangers to him "–that weren't taken by those _hellions _are here. Go to the tearoom and _wait for us to return_."

"_No_!" Ron yelled immediately. "_Hermione_ is there, me and Harry've got to help."

"I think you should listen to your mother, Ron," Lupin said. "I understand you have concerns about your friend, but as grown wizards we are much more adept–"

"That's never stopped us before," Ron fiercely said back. "Harry's done and defeated more than half of you, and he's not even of age–"

"_Ronald, you listen to me–_" Mrs Weasley began, but Mr Weasley held up his hand, silencing everybody.

His face was pale as he spoke. "They – the Death Eaters, the riot-makers – they're quiet."

Indeed, when Harry strained his ears, he couldn't hear the sound of chaos and crashing and happy laughing as he could before.

"They've heard us – and they're coming," whispered a Healer at the back.

And sure enough, sparks and jets of lights streamed from the staircase, shooting frenziedly of the tips of the swiftly-advancing pack of Death Eaters climbing up the stairs. Screaming, Molly jerked Harry and Ron out of the way and into a room called 'Acromantula Attacks' and locked it magically with her wand, Ron howling and pounding on the glass door.

Harry looked through the see-through glass, saw Lupin cast a Liquefying Hex onto the staircase and saw many Death Eaters fall, yelling out, onto the floor below. Mr Weasley flicked his wand at the direction of the enemy and left a dozen Stunned, letting Sirius, in his dog form, leap and bound at several of the rioters and bite them hard in unconventional places. Dumbledore smoothly waved his wand in a sweeping arc, blasting all in the crossfire to one side of the wall and left stuck there by the force of the magic.

But it wasn't all going well for the defending side. Some Death Eaters had flown up instead of using the melted staircase The horde of terror swarmed and a young, barely-of-age pink-haired woman was completely frozen as they swamped onto everybody, and Fred Weasley was the subject of, first a Disarming Spell, then a fierce Blasting Curse at his leg. Kingsley Shacklebolt was forced to retreat as three Death Eaters forged ahead in his direction. Jets of lights flew back and forth, and a long-haired, blue-eyed young adult with a dragon tooth earring – who must've certainly been a Weasley – ducked for cover as a particularly bright green one soared over his red head.

Ron was desperately trying to unlock the door – 'Alohomora – _Alohomora _– ALOHOMORA!" – and Harry, coming back to his senses, told Ron to back off, pointed his wand at the door and said, "_Expulso_!" and the door exploded, shattering the wood into a million dusty pieces. A Death Eater dangerously close to the door when it had blown up had been caught in the eruption and now lay under a thin layer of dust.

Stepping over him with Ron close behind, they hurried off, Harry having to Disarm an attacker to avoid being hit by a green jet of light. Explosions erupting and shouts and screams resounding behind them, they hastened to where the staircase had once been, a puddle of what looked to be liquidised wood lying at the bottom.

"The drop's too far," Harry said truthfully; the distance between the edge of where the former staircase was and where it was now was too long to be safe, and Harry didn't fancy falling into the pool of bubbling, unpleasant melted wood.

"We can hover," Ron suggested desperately.

"Neither of us are powerful enough to do an Air Suspension Charm, and we're both too heavy to use _Wingardium Leviosa _on," Harry said, thinking that this was one of the many situations with Harry and Ron where they both wished Hermione were there.

"Don't be so negative, mate …" Ron said, frowning at the drop.

"Hold on," Harry said, thinking of a Charms lesson they had had about counter-charms. "_Coagulas_!" Harry said, pointing his wand at the bubbling pond below them, which slowly reformed, rising into the air and solidifying, congealing and thickening. As it did, Harry felt his stomach drop as the Bandaging Charm he had cast on himself maybe a quarter of an hour ago was now quickly going weaker.

The second the staircase had remoulded, the two of them rushed down, immediately shooting down the few confused Death Eaters at the bottom who had been unable to levitate themselves upward.

What _was _levitating were all the Muggleborns, all of them still asleep. Immediately, Harry and Ron began muttering, "_Descendo_," and pointing their wands at the slumbering, hovering people and watching as they fell earthwards and woke up from the force of their fall. As they woke, Harry quickly recapped what was happening to them and they ran up to join the fight. When Ron had cast the Descending Charm on Hermione, he couldn't help but notice with a grin that Ron made the effort to also gently whisper "_Arresto Momentum_," so Hermione's fall was less forceful.

"What's the – the awakening spell or whatever?" Ron asked absent-mindedly as Harry was using _Descendo _on the last few people.

"_Rennervate_," Harry said, accidentally waking up someone mid-flight, "though you _could _just wake her up with true love's kiss."

"Shut up," Ron whispered, his ears going red, but he imitated the Charm anyway and Hermione's eyes burst open, and it only took her a split second to take in her surroundings.

"_Ron – Harry – the Death Eaters are here, _they're not acting on You-Know-Who's orders, of course, but they're stirring up trouble all the same–" Hermione began but Ron shushed her.

"We know, Hermione, it's fine," Ron said gently.

"No, no, it's _not_," Hermione said immediately, sitting upright quickly. "Look at Harry, I can see you're in pain, Harry, that Bandaging Charm wouldn't have worked."

Harry stumbled over to the two of them. "Then what do you suggest, Dr Granger?"

"I'm not a Healer or anything," Hermione said, blushing deeply–

"You're probably better at magic than half the Healers here, Hermione, you'd be a nutter to think otherwise," Ron said kindly.

"Thanks, Ron, but I'm really not that great," she said modestly, still red, and turned to Harry. "Hold out your leg. Okay, so basic spells: _Realleviate_, _Castus Conjuro _and _Infernull_," she said, flicking her wand three times. "Better?" she asked Harry.

"Yeah, loads!" Harry said truthfully; with each spell, the pain had lessened slightly. The first spell had deadened the pain, the second had plastered his leg with a cast, much stronger than Harry's Bandaging Charm, and Harry had not seen what the last one had done, but assumed it also mollified the burns in his skin.

"Why didn't the Healers do that in the first place?" Harry asked.

Hermione's blush deepened. "Oh, of course they did, and much more than I could ever do. Your pain at first was probably unbearable, but you passed out before you could experience it. I just did some _more_, and it's overkill, really, too much magic on a living being can do much more harm than help, _oh, I really shouldn't _have, you can tell I was very reluctant to do so, but you looked in so much pain … I bent the rules, I guess. The thing is, you're alive and well, and _Merlin's pants, I've__ just performed underage magic_, oh, my goodness, I'm going to be _expelled _and–"

Ron laughed and put his arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Hermione, stop worrying. Come on, we'll check out the fight, see if it's done or whatever."

As Hermione and Ron both began arguing whether Hermione should be worrying or not, Harry bit a smile as he walked behind them. The three years they'd known each other had been full of fights and arguments and temporary estrangements, but there had always been something between Hermione and Ron. Harry thought it would've taken much longer for the two to realise it.

The momentary relief was short-lived as when the ascended the flight of the stairs, they saw the skirmish was still continuing. While many witches and wizards were passed out and there was a bloody pool in which lay an unrecognizable mangled mess of a person, many were still fighting on. A notable duel was between Kingsley Shacklebolt who was joined by Lupin, against the man with the long, twisted face called Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov cast a fiery stream of jet-black but Lupin deflected it with, by the concentrated, determined look on his face as he clutched his wand with two hands, lots of focus and effort. Kingsley Shacklebolt was about to cast a spell at the occupied Death Eater, but Dolohov noticed and immediately flicked his wand upward, the jet of black fire destroying Lupin's shield and sending the werewolf backward into a wall, and resuming the one-on-one duel with Kingsley.

Harry cast his eyes onto Dumbledore who was defending his self from a masked Death Eater with familiar, white-blonde hair. Dumbledore blinded all in the vicinity with his incredible white globe, as radiant as the sun, sprouting from his wand tip. The Death Eater shielded his eyes from the luminosity and Dumbledore switched off the light and slashed the mask off the Death Eater's face, revealing the one underneath to be Lucius Malfoy, the father of Draco Malfoy, who mutually loathed Harry.

"Ah, Lucius," Dumbledore said softly, while Malfoy's furious spell easily ricocheted off Dumbledore's shield. "I've always questioned your taste in entertainment – entering a defenceless hospital full of sick, injured people and then forcing them all into one room for half an hour while you tortured their friends? Oh, how unpleasant. I may have been infected with vanishing sickness and I so wish I have been, so as to _vanish _from your cowardly presence. Tell me, does your master approve of what you're doing?"

Malfoy opened his mouth, his expression savage and looked just about to answer Dumbledore's question, when something hissing, snakelike and cold resonated through the whole corridor, and, by Harry's guess, the entire hospital.

"No," said the voice, creepily quiet but incredibly loud at the same time. "Lucius's master certainly does not approve of his weak actions. Eternal rainclouds? Messages written in blood? How childish. No, I certainly do not agree with my followers' actions."

Harry shuddered, for it was the voice of Lord Voldemort.

* * *

><p>AN: Hi. Recently, I've changed some chapter names and edited the chapters, so some things will be a tiny bit different. :)


	7. The Drink of Dionysus

Chapter Seven

* * *

><p><em>– THE DRINK OF DIONYSUS –<em>

* * *

><p>The high, cold, snakelike hiss resounded throughout the hallway, but Harry couldn't see him anywhere. It was as if the sound was emanating from the walls, the ground, the sky. "My followers, my Death Eaters. You disappoint me."<p>

In a different situation, Harry might've found it comical, people frenziedly looking left and right and pleading with the omnipresent voice that came from nowhere, yet everywhere.

Some screamed, some ran down the corridor and to the stairs, some huddled against the walls, but Lucius Malfoy, unmasked and aloof, stood up, talking towards the sky in a trembling, quiet but imploring. "My Lord, with all due respect, we understood your last wishes to continue your terror against the filth and scum that inhabit our polluted environment, we understood that you wanted us to carry on your plans until your returned to us, we recruited, we have terrorised, we have not been found out as of yet, we–"

"_NO_!" Voldemort's voice hissed with such tremendous force that it sent everybody but Dumbledore falling to the floor; the tall, old but formidable wizard that was the Headmaster of Hogwarts stood with his hands folded, looking determinedly down the hallway, unimpressed it seemed by Voldemort's antics as if the Dark Lord had disappointed him by not being loud enough. Dumbledore carried the air of a weather-beaten, ancient but famous and deadly sword, still used in action regularly and rarely dormant. As always, Harry could not help but feel magnified by how imposing and powerful Dumbledore looked.

"The instructions I left were clear," Voldemort whispered coldly, the breath of the last syllable echoing oddly throughout the corridor. "I explained that should a situation arise where I am unable to reveal myself to you, you follow four simple missions. _Infiltrate the Ministry. Kill Albus Dumbledore. Wait for my return._ However, in this case, you obviously knew my disappearance was not part of a plan, so I supposed some of you might've endeavoured to find me.

"Nevertheless, none of you have completed those plans. The Ministry remains control-free of the Death Eaters, and how humiliating to me to have a passionate following, but all of them incompetent? I can feelGrindelwald just turningin his grave. Albus Dumbledore, who I can so vividly see through my Scrying Bowl, remains alive, though perhaps not healthy. What is wrong with your hand, Dumbledore? Old age catching onto you?"

Harry, overwhelmed with the chaos of the recent events, jerked his head to look at Dumbledore's hands, one of which, Harry saw with astonishment, was blackened and dead-looking, shrivelled up like a perished plant.

Though everyone was swivelling their heads around, trying to find the source of the voice, Dumbledore looked determinedly down the hallway and Harry realised that Dumbledore, and Dumbledore only, knew which direction Voldemort was.

"Oh, Tom," Dumbledore said, smiling. "If every question ever asked was answered, then there would be no questions to be asked. That is my answer."

It seemed that Voldemort ignored him. "And last of all, very ironically," Voldemort said viciously, and Harry knew that Voldemort turned his focus back on his disobedient Death Eaters, "you have all completed, with flying colours, the mission that was least useful and most effortless. Though you knew, of course, that I would have ordered you differently, all of you sat in waiting, lingering between the border of the normal wizarding community and superiority. I speculate many of you almost blended back into society, thinking that Lord Voldemort was gone, done and dusted, and you could just walk away from that life. But you stayed, stayed because of pure cowardice, complete selfishness and utter self-interest, thinking that if I hadn'tperished that night and if I did return, you would be punished most severely for your betrayal.

"Yet none of you searched for me–"

"_MY LORD_!" a Death Eater shrieked suddenly, collapsing to the floor and bawling and bowing excessively in a subservient manner. "We searched EVERYWHERE for you! Had we heard ANYTHING about your whereabouts, we would've looked till the ends of the EARTH!"

Voldemort sounded livid at being interrupted. "If you _had _searched _everywhere_, you would have found me eventually, even with your incompetence."

"_YOUR LORDSHIP_," the same Death Eater sobbed, on all fours and shaking very visibly. "I apologise _dearly_, but, I _beg _you, _PLEASE_! _We have caused harassed the scum that think they're equal to us, we have tortured and tormented–_"

"FOOLISH!" Voldemort yelled and those who had crawled back up from the last time Voldemort had shouted were sent falling to the floor again by the terrible, colossal resonance. "It is _FOOLISH_ to argue with Lord Voldemort! Juvenile practical jokes and childish inconveniences are _nothing_, NOTHING, compared to the pain and the terror we caused in Great Wizarding War. Lucius Malfoy creating a little terrorist group because he hears rumours that Lord Voldemort is active once again so he remains in my good books? Child's play!"

"The games of children can sometimes be very enlightening," Dumbledore cut in calmly, twiddling his thumbs. "They can often be wiser and more observant than most adults."

Voldemort ignored him. "It took you _fourteen _years to build a resistance, and a weak, weak, transparent one at that. For that, you must be punished."

Harry knew that Voldemort must've been far, far away because he would not dare present himself in his feeble state, so it must've been an incredible feat to conjure something from such a long reach.

A long, thick python materialised from thin air, and made a loud thud as it landed onto the floor. People jumped out of the way as the coiled snake uncurled and slithered lethally, except the one Death Eater who had spoken, who stood paralysed to the spot.

Yet there was something translucent, flimsy about the serpent, something that made it seem less dangerous. Nevertheless, it was as strong as a normal Burmese python, striking violently at the still Death Eater's neck and rapidly wrapping itself around the terrified masked person. He thrashed but was unable to scream as the snake constricted tighter and tighter around the Death Eater's throat, until–

–Dumbledore flicked his wand and the snake disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving the assaulted Death Eater to fall to the floor, gasping for breath and massaging his throat.

"Long distance conjuration has never been your strong suit, Tom," Dumbledore said loudly. "But I see that you've achieved a Voice Projection Charm? How impressive. A bit disappointing you have decided not used your talents for better uses than threatening and attacking the only people in the world who respect you, Tom."

"I do not go by that name!" Voldemort yelled. "I am Lord Voldemort!"

Dumbledore shrugged. "Self-proclaimed lord or not, you are still Tom Riddle."

"That is the name of my filthy Muggle father who has long since been killed by my hand! A hand that will soon be the holder of a wand that murders _you_!"

Dumbledore folded his hands and spoke casually, as if they were talking over tea. "There are much worse that can happen to a man than murder. Murder, for one, does not rid the world of a person."

"_Untrue_!" bellowed Voldemort. "Those who die cannot come back!"

"Something you'll never understand, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly, "is that death is not the beginning, or the end, or even the beginning of the end, but merely the end of the beginning. One day you will die as well."

Voldemort breathed deeply and sounded like he was withholding a terrible rage. "Foolish philosophy does nothing to my ears except make them bleed, Dumbledore, I will never die–"

"–Oh, Tom, of course you will–"

"–I have secret defences you do not know about–"

"–Oh, I'm very aware of the defences you believe impregnable. I'm very aware of the murders you have committed, the lives you have taken, and what sickening power you have gained from the severance of your soul. However revolting they are, I have managed to … _bring down _a fair few."

It seemed that Voldemort was shocked, completely at a loss for words. Finally, "My Death Eaters, I now speak to you, and you only. I am willing to forgive the betrayal and incompetence you have given to me, I am willing to be merciful. Come to me now, and you shall be punished. Do not come to me now, and you shall be punished even more."

And now, Harry could see, one of the Death Eaters with her sleeves rolled up was holding up her left arm in astonishment. There, like a moving tattoo, was the pulsing Dark Mark Harry had read about in very recent history books. The tattoo-like image of a skull eating a snake was branded on all Death Eaters' arms, branded like a form of communication, the means of summoning them all to a rendezvous.

Suddenly, sporadically, many of the masked and unmasked Disapparated, some hesitating, some immediate. Soon, all of the Death Eaters were gone, but Harry guessed that a few had decided to Disapparate not into Voldemort's spidery fingers, but across the country, to run away from the imminent punishment for their treachery.

"As for you, Dumbledore," Voldemort began, but at that moment, Dumbledore swept his wand in a wide, encompassing arc and yelled, "_Begone_!"

Voldemort's piercing scream echoed long after the connection had broken.

* * *

><p>It seemed the days after big, impacting events would always be blurred and indistinct. Like watching from a camera with an unfocused lens, Harry was faintly aware of wizards and witches wearing Ministry robes Apparating into the hospital minutes too late, of rapid-fire questions bombarded at every witness and of the hospital being magically rebuilt and repaired by abundant officials.<p>

He was put back into that same 'Severe Spell Damage' ward, but this time the ward was magically expanded and two-dozen more people were propped up into the beds. Many reporters snuck into the room to ask him how it felt to face the Dark Lord twice in three days, but Mrs Weasley shooed them off.

Harry woke up groggily one day in a hospital ward bed, but it wasn't the one he had been in for what seemed to be weeks. With bleary vision, he looked around, but combined with morning eyesight and the fact his glasses weren't on him, there was little to see. The early morning sunlight filtering through the shutters shone their light on a new, polished sign saying 'Minor Charm Harm Ward Three'.

"W-what–?" Harry said, his hand groping around the bedside table for his glasses.

"'Morning, Harry," a voice said, and he whipped his head around to see the blurred outline of Hermione in the bed next to him, who was casually sitting up in her hospital bed and reading the _Daily Prophet _with a frown. Harry rubbed his eyes and his wandering hands found his glasses. The ward was full of beds occupied by bored-looking people and more than half looked like they shouldn't be in a hospital at all. Nobody was bandaged, except Harry, with light gauze around his leg, the dark burn he saw before vanished and replaced with new, perhaps coarse, skin. It was relieving to know his leg had healed, but then why was he still in the hospital?

"What's Minor Charm Harm?" Harry asked, putting on his glasses.

Hermione rolled the eyes that were quickly scanning the newspaper before her. "It's this newly made ward for people who've been hit by minor charms. Really, those kinds of charms could be easily fixed by counter-spells, and the ward's just made to keep all the witnesses inside the hospital so word doesn't get out. A lot of work gone to waste, in my opinion. Look," she said, holding up the newspaper, where a moving photograph depicted the St. Mungo's lobby, far from its usual grandeur flashing into the wreckage and people cleaning the place and shooing off the photographer.

There was a very article underneath it; its headline _ATTACK ON ST. MUNGO'S BECOMES INTERNATIONAL STORY DESPITE COVER-UP ATTEMPTS. _Harry's eyes flitted over the story and caught his name mentioned several times, things about how Harry had battled Voldemort twice in a space of a few days, how Harry had escaped the skirmish with few injuries and a brave heart – basically all the rubbish the _Daily Prophet _usually wrote about.

"You said it was meant to be a secret?" said Harry. "With all the stuff written down here, at least half of this stuff could be true. The _Prophet's_ got to report _some_ true things once in a while, right?"

Hermione smiled ruefully. "Secrets are strange. The harder you try and cover them up, the easier they get out."

She continued flicking through the newspaper pages and made a disgusted, disparaging noise. "Ugh. _She's_ in here, _again_!"

She held up the newspaper to Harry's face again, and Harry caught a few lines about Fudge, while very subtly being portrayed in an unlikeable, inept light, spluttering that safety measures were not being reduced and were perfectly fine and the whole incident was a small error made by the hospital. Harry cast Hermione a confused look – Fudge was not a woman, a '_she_' – but Hermione urged him to keep on reading and he found what made Hermione so disdainful.

Griselda Grey, described in a very different perspective as a paragon of virtue and accomplishment, flowered on excessively about the importance of security in dark times and how the increasing urgency for the eradication, or at least apprehension of non-human creatures. She hinted that she had suspicions they were working for Voldemort, sensing that non-humans felt 'under-appreciated' and 'jealous' of wizards and witches and felt that You-Know-Who could give them better privileges. She went on to say that she strongly suspected Sirius Black, noted 'mass-murderer', of dallying with mutinous, rebelling non-humans. More, and more, and even more _Prophet _garbage.

Harry, who had been feeling very ambivalent reading the article – Fudge, really, was made out to be an idiot, and Grey an accomplished, superior witch – made an outraged sound in his throat and looked at Hermione. "I know Sirius hasn't been cleared, but Dumbledore must've appealed, helped–"

"Oh, of course Dumbledore helped," Hermione said, looking patronising. "But he doesn't have much proof at all! I mean, the word of three then-thirteen year-olds? The court doesn't care if you're the Boy Who Lived, you're not the Man Who Lived, so your word doesn't count. Lots of adults are like that; they tell children to grow up but can't seem to grow up themselves. Really, adults teach children to walk and talk but, after that, it's 'sit down' and 'shut up'. We're children, Harry, so to them, we don't matter."

"What about Lupin?" Harry asked, perhaps a tad annoyed Hermione had forgotten about him.

Hermione shook her head. "Harry, I don't think you've realised it, but the wizarding community doesn't care for anyone that's not a grown wizard or a witch. Especially someone with a disease or disorder with a stigma, like Professor Lupin, who's a werewolf! Like that Terrapiliosis-infected man Ron told me you saw!

"Being a werewolf doesn't mean Professor Lupin's a beast every second of his life! That infected man isn't always mad and murderous if he takes his medication! _But nobody cares_, because the legends are that werewolves are murderous beasts that can't be let into society, and that the Terrapiliosic person will kill you if you come too close and are regularly violent. There are so many more people with conditions and afflictions that are ostracised from our society because they were bit, or stung, and couldn't help it! Don't even get me started on house-elves and goblins and other creatures and their mistreatment just because their environment and the way they were born!"

Harry fell silent, baffled at the justice system. Once, he had thought whenever he had run into the wall between Platforms Nine and Ten and arrived in Platform Nine and Three-Quarters he was entering a magical, perfect world of wonder and wizardry, but really, he was just stepping into the same Muggle world, except this time, the biased government had magic, more power, and essentially, more prejudice.

Harry looked at Hermione, who looked quite similar to a few days before when she had been quailing in fury as she tiraded about Griselda Grey, full of barely concealed rage. "_That _is why that … _hag_, cannot and will not be Minister for Magic. She's the representation of half the wizards and witches out there who despise half- and non-humans, and at least Fudge was – _is _– nice, when he wants to be. He isn't nearly as prejudiced as that cosmetic cow, but, honestly? She's putting a pretty good campaign, and the people love her."

She was looking incredibly dejected, but, as if a sudden epiphany had come, she shook the misery out of her head and replaced it with an expression of fierce determination. "Whatever. The battle's lost but the war hasn't. Grey cannot win, she will not! I'll make sure, even if _I_ have to campaign–"

"Hermione, I don't think–"

"Yes, I was kidding, of course they wouldn't let me, I'm underage, have no qualifications, plus I'm a Mudblood, they'd never vote for me–"

"Don't say that about yourself, you're just as good as they are–"

"Oh, yes, but they don't care, do they?" Hermione asked, looking grim. "I could beat them all in exams, duels, whatever, and the only thing that'd be damaged would be their pride for a moment, and then they'd start bullying me again, because it doesn't matter that I could be a hundred times the witch they are, they'd still hate me for the fact that I exist, because I'm a Mudblood," she said, and seeing Harry's reproachful look, she shrugged. "What? It's completely and utterly true, and I don't care either. I _know _that I'm cleverer, kinder, wiser, than Grey, but I won't boast about that, because I know that won't make me any better than her. Really, it'll be all the more satisfying knowing that a filthy, little Mudblood brought her down."

Harry couldn't help but agree.

Hermione's intense expression disappeared and shook her head, as if suddenly coming to reason. "I'm sorry, Harry, this isn't how this conversation should have ended up."

"It's fine, Hermione, actually there's something I wanted to talk to you about – I never really got the chance, with me passing out, and then the Death Eater thing – so, there was this–"

"Hullo guys!" someone said suddenly from the doorway, and Ron came walking in, grinning broadly and holding three glasses of what looked to be melted gold, except smoother, brighter and aromatic.

"Hey, Ron," said Harry and he couldn't help but want Ron to move closer; the golden liquid emanated an incredibly delicious scent that was exotic, unfamiliar, but also gave him the feeling of intimacy and confidentiality, like the drink wanted to tell Harry a secret, and all he had to do was come closer.

"What _is _that?" Hermione asked, who too looked entranced by the drink.

"It's called, uh, ambrosia," Ron said, smiling dreamily. Around his lips was a moustache of the sloppily drunken ambrosia and Harry saw that one of the cups looked undeniably sipped from. "I don't know, it was in the beverages section and it was right there for the taking, only Dad told me not to drink it, but it looked so nice, so I drank some anyway and it tasted heavenly, so I brought some for you!"

"I've heard of it," Hermione said vaguely. "A group of wizards in Ancient Greece who performed magic in front of Muggles a lot, made it rain, showed them fire – the Ancient Greek Muggles called them gods, and they basically supplied the Muggles with a lot of stuff they wouldn't have today. One of them was really famous for creating wine, and everyone speculates he brewed ambrosia too. It's meant to be really powerful, more than alcohol, not even the woodland nymphs drink it, only Maenads – these frenzied, possessed, eternally-intoxicated nymphs – do …"

"C'mon, it won't hurt to give it a try," Ron said and Harry agreed, taking his cup from Ron and draining it with Ron at the same time.

A great, light feeling spread throughout him, though it was accompanied by a pounding dizziness in his head, and Harry scrunched up his face in dislike. He set the cup aside and saw through narrowed, bleary eyes that Ron was doubled over, sick and disorientated.

Hermione had a haughty look about her replacing her recent dreamy, enraptured one. "I _told _you two, underage drinking is unhealthy and your dad could be charged for it, Ron. You're lucky nobody else was watching, or you'd be in big trouble."

"You looked like you wanted to drink it, you were fascinated," Ron grumbled.

Hermione looked offended. "I am a mature and responsible person. I would _never _drink that, underage or not. I've read all about it, it makes you woozy, dizzy, unreasonable; the Maenads, probably the only creatures who drink it on a regular basis, used to be the following of a really famous wizard named Dionysus who, as I said before, probably made ambrosia too–"

"If he's famous, then he's probably smart, right? So ambrosia can't be that dumb–"

"He fought people with a pinecone. He was particularly famous for randomly Transfiguring people into dolphins."

Ron shut up.

Then he spoke up again, "Whatever, fine, we won't drink it anymore."

"Good that you've come to your senses," Hermione said, and Ron was about to argue again.

"Anyway," Harry said hastily. "There was something I wanted to tell the two of you about."

He explained what had happened in the cave, the fact that the Night-Knocker – and when he mentioned the dark creature, Hermione gasped – had turned his wand into a Portkey – Hermione gasped again and began talking about how they were learning about the _Portus _charm this year, and then Ron cast a reproachful look at her, saying, "That's the _second _time you've interrupted and he hasn't even _started_ yet!" – and how it had transported him to a cave, where Voldemort had made Harry drink the Contracoction, how the Inferi had scarily obeyed Harry and considered him their master, and how that strange, whispering locket had been destroyed by Voldemort's billowing fire.

"Oh!" Harry said suddenly. "I forgot to tell you; I remembered that there was thing … right! I can speak this language, it doesn't sound like a human language, it just _came _to me, it helped me open that weird locket…" and he demonstrated, hissing and spitting in a low voice.

Both Hermione and Ron looked at him, terrified. Slowly, Hermione said, "Harry, I think you just spoke the snake language."

It wasn't particularly staggering or astonishing, and Harry felt delighted revelation. "Oh, that's neat! I'm sure lots of people can talk to animals."

"No, Harry," Hermione said, shaking her head. "There _are_ people who _learn _to speak to animals … but what you just did … I'm pretty sure you haven't taken any faunal linguistic lessons," she said, giving a nervous laugh. "What you just did is an inborn talent, called Parseltongue. You're a Parselmouth, Harry."

"Cool," Harry said. "So?"

Now it was Ron who spoke. "Mate … speaking with snakes is kind of connected with the Dark Arts. Slytherin himself was a Parseltongue."

"Yeah, well, you both know I have nothing to do with the Dark Arts," Harry said, grinning, but he saw Hermione forcing a smile and Ron frowning a little, subtly moving away from Harry.

What was so bad about speaking to snakes that made his best friends in the entire world doubt him? Was this the same sort of discrimination and prejudice that Hermione was always angry other people had?

* * *

><p>AN: Merry Christmas!


End file.
